Drip. drip, drip…

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Armed with a disposable BIC razor that comes in the prison “care package” (an oxymoron of preposterous proportions,), he deliberates the procedure. The exhausting process of getting warm water to the faucet begins. José pushes the button for a while with one thumb. Determined, with pelvis pressed against the front edge of the stainless steel basin, he shifts his weight from one leg to another. Periodically he switches to the other thumb. Every so often, he puts a finger against the trickle to check if it is tepid.

It’s a tedious process, but finally José with a J finishes shaving. His fuzzy little stubbles are gone, except for a sliver of coarse black bristles resting on the ridge of his upper lip. Dazzling, perfectly shaped white teeth appear almost incandescent in contrast to his rich, chocolate shake complexion. He pulls the hinged metal seat out from beneath the desk and sits with elbows resting on knees, chin propped onto one hand. He looks like he is setting himself up to absorb the warmth of a tranquil campfire.

Soon we begin to chat. I don’t know who starts, but we go on and on about everything from buttered popcorn to philosophies of the ages. José dreamily offers a monologue about being released from jail and making things right for his girlfriend and their three-year-old son. A tear rolls down his cheek. He brushes it aside with a finger. He conjectures about plans of returning to school and starting an automotive or electrical business of his own some day. He tells about his love for basketball and distrust for authority, his propensity for double cheeseburgers and disdain for pickled beets. In a moment of vulnerability, he delves into a confession about enjoying same sex encounters. The overcast sky relinquishes its vigil in time for dusk to announce its arrival.