At Least They're Committed

I stare at its gleaming edges, holding it up to the light and twisting it back and forth. And I talk to myself, “Put the razor down,” I mutter. “Don’t do it. Don’t!” But the urge is strong and my fingers start to tremble around the plastic Bic handle.

Edison’s Black Dahlia comes up from downstairs. “What are you doing?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

“Practicing!” I reply in my most chipper voice, my attention momentarily drawn away from the razor’s edge.

“Practicing?”

“Yes,” I confess. “I can’t shave my legs for 14 days before surgery.”

“Ew,” he says.

“I know, right? UGH! How can that be? Extremely troubling. Yet I want to do everything right, ya know? So I’m practicing.”

EBD says, “Ah, of course,” and — not the least bit fazed — heads down the stairs.