. . . into the mirror, not quite speechless.
Voice hushed to a whisper, for his own benefit.
He was alone in the bathroom.
Razor, toothbrush, scissors, a bar of soap, talcum powder,
these and more, occupied familiar positioning.
And yet.
“What … in the name of God, is happening to me?”
Juan had transitioned.
Perhaps he was dreaming – or hallucinating.
This, he told himself.
Brinkinfield 