Man In the Mirror

I know a man. One who barely even knows himself. He who shies away from the mirror and observes more conversations than he takes part in. A man whose blood would boil at my audacity to make such an acute statement about his character yet whose tears coat and cool the pulsing veins of his red eyes. 

The man I know, knows himself so little by choice. See, the redness in his eyes is not from pain but instead the absence of it, or so someone as unknowing as I would assume. I’ve sat in the passenger seat as the puffed clouds magically formed in his lungs have consumed the sweet, chubby face I once tried to know.

I am no one to critique the flesh of a man but I am a person all the same. And as much as one can know another; I know this man. From the abundant and rough, yet satisfyingly removable flakes of dandruff on his scalp to his benign big toe with the decaying nail that emitted a distinct smell in our old bedroom; one that oddly reminds me of him each time I cross its path. Now if I know the smell of his toes, I can assure you I know this man. 

He’s the kind of guy that would make the perfect emergency contact. While standing on a ladder wearing heavy-weighted bright white painters’ clothes soaked in paint, sweat, and maybe a little beer; he would reach into his pocket and answer the phone that he shattered by dropping it the last time I called for help. With his rough and callused hands, his fingernails mistakenly painted by his hours on the job, he would answer the phone in his soft yet grumbling voice and come to save my day.

When I met him, his hair was sliced across his brow line in a haircut that was basically a bowl cut with bangs. He looked rough, but sweet and with many secrets to hide. I believe this to be  what initially caught my eye. I wanted to crack him open, find out his deal, solve his case. And so I tried to see who was actually hiding behind the baggy clothes and bowed head. 

As we began dating he took after my elevated ‘socialite’ style. A nice shirt here, freshly pressed pants there, slowly, very slowly I watched him grow into a fashion that made him glow although I’m not sure that it was entirely his own. Charal is what his family called him. And though it seemed loving to me at first, he almost grimaced each time it was uttered. When I asked him what it meant he whispered ‘small fish’ and that was all.  

The man I know stands 5’6” tall and often fibs to people that he’s 5’8”. Sometimes when he’s feeling very down to earth he’ll say he’s 5’7” and I go along with it. I never truly understood this habit of his despite always being willing to support. What use is there in lying about your height to someone standing in front of you? I wondered. I also wondered if he told himself this same lie while looking in the mirror each morning, until I remembered that his room doesn’t have one.

He dwells in quaint quarters; a bed, a nightstand, a bookshelf, and an old dresser. He’s always prided himself on needing nothing more. Living with him made caring for myself feel extravagant, too much. What I took time to realize though was that both I and those around him had a habit of painting him as too little.

Too short, too quiet, too sweet, too gullible, too helpful, too trusting, too much and too little all the same. I watched as he flinched at the words that flowed so smoothly from the mouths of those who claimed to love him. And then I came to know him.

I know a boy. A scrawny little Mexican boy with golden skin and a black mohawk. One with sweet eyes and a smile so adorable only the luckiest have caught a glance. One with baby pictures so cute they convinced me that he was my kids’ future father. One who you’d find at the back of the class twiddling his thumbs or thumbing through a book; losing himself in some fantasy world. This same little boy jumped in joy after seeing that I’d put a Harry Potter poster next to his bed at the ripe age of 21. 

I never truly got to know the younger version of my small fish but it seems as though he’s maintained some of this spirit against the current over the years. 

The man I know now defies. He no longer follows his parents’ every wish, nor lies at my feet like a golden retriever. The man who I’ve known to wake up and please the world has begun to look in the mirror first instead. 

The shag on his face is gone each morning as he freshens up his goatee. 

Sometimes I even miss the unibrow that used to live between his brown, almond eyes.

He sprays cologne on his body, which has grown much larger and stronger over the years; and spreads oil through his back length hair. 

It all flows like a poem, telling the story of the man who tends it. 

A man who I once knew, before he came to know himself.