point of view

1. It's my first bathroom without a window. It's our first bathroom as man and wife. The pipes heat up the small steamy room and I have to blow dry the mirror to get past the fog. I've grown accustomed to these new things, to my naked morning routine. I was never one for being naked, I'm still not, but the heaters on have made this bathroom a steam room. I'm standing in front of the mirror and I'm almost done with my routine. Last is where I trim the split ends. This is new too. I have found new ways to deal with my new life and I am surprised that it involves the eradication of split ends. I can hear Paul in the hallway, shifting his weight. I can see his little shadow in the crack under the door. Paul is wearing his navy robe and he wants to shave and shower before Jane arrives. I don't feel guilty for making the bathroom steamy and I don't feel guilty for trimming my split ends and I don't feel guilty for calling Jane Jane and not Mom. These things are natural. Being a good wife is not in my nature. A good wife would walk out of the bathroom and stop cowering. A good wife would give her husband a kiss on the cheek. A good wife would please for Christ's sake call her mother-in-law Mom.
I think sometimes I test Paul because I wait for his knock and his soft, Oregon, non-confrontational voice, "Hey hun, you okay? I need the shower and Mom will be here in half an hour."
I open the door, still naked. Man and wife have hardly anything special between them. There is a pot of coffee on the table by the morning paper. I used to read the paper front to back. I used to skim it even. Then for a while I got the idea what the headlines where referring to. Now it's all these stories I am out of touch with. It could be the news from another century, for all I know.
"Hey babe," Paul says. "When you trim those hairs could you please rinse them down the sink?"
"Sure," I say. "Sorry." This is a weekly exchange.
I walk through the living room into our little bedroom with the too firm mattress and the closet for the both of us. I slip on a soft sweater dress and the boots I wore the night we met. I've been trying to wear them as much as possible lately. After I have the baby they won't fit, at least that's what my sister told me to expect. I'm curling my eye lashes when I hear the buzzer.
"Paul, she's here," I say, sticking my head into the bathroom. I'm waiting for his directions, like I don't know how to let somebody in. "I'll buzz her up, okay?"
"Great," he says from the shower. "I'll be out in just a minute." This is probably true, the water is turned off. I don't understand people who towel off inside the shower. People who towel off inside the shower were never an archetype for me until I became a cohabitant.
I press the door button, not realizing until afterwards that a friendly "Hi!" would have been appropriate. Judging from delivery boys, the journey between the front door and our doorstep is between 45 seconds to one minute. Jane is getting up there, so it'll be closer to one minute. Paul dashes from the bathroom to the bedroom, his short hair almost dry. I hear the knock at the door and my stomach turns to knots. It makes me even worse when that happens now, it doesn't seem good for the baby.
I open the door with a smile and hug Jane or Mom and take her coat and hat and gloves. Her cheeks are flushed and her glasses are foggy, but she looks happy to be here the poor thing. As I'm putting her things in the closet, I pull out my coat and hat and gloves.
"I forgot english muffins Paul will be out any minute have a seat," I say in one breath, before she has a chance to argue. Neither of us care about english muffins and Paul has a wheat allergy. I step outside to the first snow of the year. It's eight a.m. on a holiday and the street is empty. Cars are hiding beneath blankets of white and the only footsteps on the sidewalk are Mom's, heading in the opposite direction as mine.

2. My days start in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee. Hannah used to be next to me, sipping her cup as we looked out the window at the skyline through branches. Now she wakes before me, leaves me standing by the bathroom door in the morning blue dark of the hallway. There is a thin rectangle of yellow light coming out around the door. Hannah, I miss her and her wide mouth and the secrets we used to keep. I feel the hot air pouring out from behind the closed door; I didn't think being a husband would mean closed doors. But that is romantic, I guess. My wife is her own person with her own secrets and her own time in the mornings. She has her own time this morning especially. I knock on the door, say, "Hey hun, you okay? I need the shower and Mom will be here in half an hour." I can't stand confrontation.
The door swings open to her, naked (which is still exciting), and she breezes past me into the living room. She smells a fresh sort of soft, like baby's hair. I want to touch her. I need to shower and shave.
In the bathroom she's left a mess. Little hairs cover the counter, sink, and floor. Sometimes I feel like she's my sister.
"Hey babe," I say. "When you trim those hairs could you please rinse them down the sink?"
"Sure," she says. "Sorry."
We both know nothing will change.
I do the same thing every day. I shave dry and then I take a shower. I wash my face then my hair then my body. I am done in less than five minutes. In this time I think about the day at work ahead of me or the assignments I have to do or the conversations to have with Hannah or the phone calls home to make. Today Mom comes in for the holiday. It's our first year without Dad and my first year as a husband. I towel off and wish Hannah would tell me whatever it is she is keeping. I hate confrontation.
She peeks her head into the bathroom. "Paul, she's here,"she says. There's a pause. Have you let her in? I'm about to say. "I'll buzz her up," she says.
I scramble in the bathroom, throw my robe over my back and run into the bedroom. Hannah looks pretty in a dress and her favorite boots. I think I'll wear my sweater that matches. From the other room I hear the door open. Hannah sounds sweet, like the girl I met, and my mother sounds tired. It's a long train ride from the suburbs, I don't know how she got up early enough. There is a short exchange followed by the door opening and shutting. I step into the living room to see my mother sitting alone on the sofa. I sit down next to her.
"Hannah will be right back," she says.
"Sure," I say. "Sorry."
We both know nothing will change.

3. I wake up without an alarm each morning at 5:30 a.m. I eat a bowl of oatmeal, take a shower, and get dressed for my day. Today I drive my car to the train station and board the first city bound express of the day. On the train a mother and daughter sit across from me. The mother is telling the daughter all about how to behave at Uncle Robin's house. Tomorrow, right after breakfast, they will go to the shopping mall to visit Santa Claus. The daughter has never done this before. Yes, there will be elves there. No, no reindeers they like it better in the North Pole. It's too warm down here.
I exit the train and walk out of the downtown station into the street. Fat snowflakes are falling. I hail a cab. It's a fifteen minute drive to their apartment. They still don't know what neighborhood they live in. I'd like to find out so I can tell my girl friends at Bunko Night. I'm a little early--the streets are deserted because of the snow. I pay the nice cab driver and ring their doorbell. I can see my breath in the air fogging up my glasses each time I exhale. The door buzzes letting me in and I walk the two flights of stairs up to my son's apartment. I knock on the door and my daughter-in-law answers. She is not the prettiest girl my son has dated, but she was the kindest. She smiles and takes my coat, hat, and gloves. I remember the pumpkin muffins I had made. They're sitting on the kitchen counter. I knew I would forget something.
Hannah too has forgotten something and steps outside. I try to tell her that all the shops are closed, but she is down the stairs before I can. The two have a beautiful little apartment, not as small as I was told to expect but again not as big as they deserve. I hope they don't live here when they start a family. There is never any quiet, never any privacy. The children would be so frightened by a dark black silent night by the time they experienced one.
I sit on the sofa and wait. My son comes out of his room, shirt untucked, pants uncreased, defeated.