Send a text before you knock

“Don’t forget to check the mirror before you leave!” his mother would yell, in the morning, every morning, just before school.

As he grew older, and his height grew somewhat, she still yelled it. She yelled it when he was a teenager. She yelled it on the morning of his wedding. She yelled it even after she had died. His mother was always in the mirror, yelling and reminding him, yet, there he stood, with the mirror serving a different purpose.

With a few deep breaths, he attempted to suck his belly in, hoping to spot any signs of the muscles he was once proud of. The mirror did not lie, especially to men over forty. Surely he should’ve been used to the new shape of his belly. But still he tried his best to suck in more air, but the more he tried, his belly just looked bigger than before. There was no need for him to exhale.

Over the years, his marriage changed him, and the way he viewed himself. He hated how his paunch protruded beyond his ribcage, a clear distraction from his strong legs and chiselled arms. The bags around his eyes were darker, decorated with cracks that snaked around in uneven patterns. A hairline is not a hairline if there is no hair.

Unrecognisable.

Unloved.

Unhinged.

Three words that popped up at him, just like his unrecognisable, unloved and unhinged mind.

Despite her blurry image in the corner of the mirror, he ignored his wife. Her naked body lay awkwardly between wanting to fully relax and give in to the bed, and sitting in an upright position.

There she was: quiet, lurking, judging.

Her expression was hard to read, especially her red smile.

All she did was slump against the wall, with her eyes closed, her neck in pain, outstretched, and upright, whilst the rest of her body gave in beneath her. There was something heavy about her, even when she wasn’t awake. As badly as he wanted to place her into a more comfortable position, he let her be.

In fact, he forced himself to ignore her. For the first time, in a long time, he wanted to focus on himself, even if it just meant staring at his naked body, in the mirror.

There were knocks on the door.

The knocking started off slow. Then, the incessant knocking gradually progressed. It were as if the knocking mirrored his unsteady heartbeat. Note to self: Find out what happened to the act of respectfully knocking thrice at someone’s and then leaving when they don’t answer.

He scraped that note. People didn’t knock any more. All respect and common sense in today’s day and age had been lost. What a joke that these days it has become important to send a text before you knock. A mental note deliberately left out of his mind.

         Still, he stayed unmoved, examining every edge of his body in the mirror, examining the outline of himself. He tried to do a lot of ignoring that day. Surprisingly he enjoyed the sound of the knocking. Another knock. Another knock. Another knock. He let invade the room. There was no need for him to answer the door. His attention remained on the mirror, on his body ... his body that belonged to him.

         The more he looked, the more he noticed a glow-like effect on his skin. Sweet and sweaty stench of sex clung onto him, and not her. With a slight tilt of his head, his chest broadening, and a smirk that revealed a little too much confidence, he felt like a man again. The man he always knew he could be. The man he always wanted to be.

Power finally emanated from him too, mixing in with the foreign and new-found glow. And no, not the glow of a pregnant woman. Never link anything womanly to him.

No.

Never.

He was a man         a real man         a real man with chest hair         damp chest hair                  to be exact         chest hair on his skin that glowed       chest hair dampened by sex      rough sex rough sex that made the hairs of his chest curl in strange patterns         strange patterns that were striking and eye-catching, a quirky expressionist painting all over his chest     his chest            the bold, strong chest that belonged only to him chest full of hair manly.

Note to self: Real men don’t trip on their chest hair.

The echoing of the knocking continued, interrupting his thoughts. He did not care. It was his home after all. He was the sole owner. He could do what he wanted, something new he was putting into practice. He did not have to answer!

And instead of answering the door, he found a sudden urge to touch himself. All along his chest, his hands moving downward.

Why?

Why the need to touch himself. She lay there, right there, ready for him. She was there to serve him.

         Note to self: Be bold! Be a man! Touch yourself.

         Still, in the mirror, he wanted to feel whole.

         Finally, he motioned to the door.

“Okay! Woah! I did not expect this, sir,” announced the delivery boy.

He looked down at the delivery boy, who was still bent over, his shoelaces caught between his fingers, frozen just before tying the final loop.

The owner, who answered the door, stayed silent, waiting for the delivery boy to continue.

“It's just a penis, you know,” said the owner.

The delivery boy kept staring, one hand still clutching the shoelace, seemingly unable to look away.

“This is not sexual or invasive. I’m just shocked that you came to the door naked, sir. I guess it would be rude not to look.”

The owner said nothing.

“Aah! I did not mean to say that out loud and—”

A car rolled toward the house, then stopped. The smell of tyres screeching against the downhill of the tar road invaded the owner’s nostrils. The owner wanted to yell to explain that things were not what they looked like. After all, the delivery boy was merely tying his shoelaces. The next moment, the car rolled on down, its tyres clattering over several metal drains.

         Finally, the delivery boy got up, rummaged through the many, many pockets of his overalls, before grabbing his phone.

         “I have a delivery here for Mrs—”

         “No! I am the owner here.” His pride glistened over his wet lips.

The delivery boy lowered his gaze. “Oh,” was all he could muster.

“And... I don’t usually walk around naked. We are just trying to be... spontaneous... ja... that’s it... spontaneous... My wife says she wants spice... At first... I told her to scratch around... in one of the cupboards... for spice, ja... spice... that’s what I said. Go look for spice in one of the cupboards... ja. But, she didn’t laugh... My jokes are not the only thing that is boring around here. If you know what I mean,” the owner said.

The delivery boy didn’t laugh. He didn’t know what the owner meant either.

“I should probably leave and just mark the package as undelivered,” he said. “Then someone else can come back tomorrow. You are clearly occupied.”

The owner said nothing.

“Oh! Except then I will have to fill in a whole report and explain why I didn’t deliver it and it will be too much—”

Still, the owner said nothing, as the delivery boy found the right words.

“Okay. Please just sign this form. I really should go.” Still, his feet refused to move. All he needed was to hand over the package to the owner, get him to sign, and then be on his way.

He gulped hot air instead.

The door shut behind him.

A mental note: fix the door – he was the sole owner of the house after all.

Listening closely, the owner waited for the delivery boy’s footsteps to disappear. The houses were matchbox-style, semi-detached, with “secure off-street parking”. Great! That meant everyone heard and saw everything that happened all the time. Not too far off, a truck door finally slammed. All he heard thereafter was the truck idling beyond the stoep. He looked down at his hands and noticed how dirty they were, so he made his way to the toilet to wash them.

Once inside the toilet, however, he ignored the basin. Instead, he stood on his toes to catch a glimpse of himself in the toilet mirror. Another mental note: lower out-of-reach objects!

He smelled his fingers and licked his whole hand, tasting her, ignoring the water trickling from the tap.

Then, the knocking – again!

That time, he sped to the door care-free, dirty hands and all.

“Okay! Woah! You still don’t have any clothes on,” announced the delivery boy.

The owner said nothing.

He had opened the door only halfway, keeping one half of his naked body concealed behind it whilst the other remained visible to the delivery boy.

“Sorry to disturb, sir...” The delivery boy took the longest pause. “Sir seems to have smudged the form,” he continued, gesturing towards the owner’s hands, though not clearly enough for the owner to understand what he meant.

The owner stayed exactly where he was, half-hidden behind the door, watching him with his left eye.

“My wife and I were experimenting... with... paint... ja... paint... for the spice... If you know what I mean,” he said.

Once more, the delivery boy didn’t laugh. And once more, he didn’t know what the owner meant either.

Instead of answering the owner, the delivery boy thought about what he was going to mention next. “Must be a fun marriage, sir,” he announced after a long pause. He smile hiding revealing his innocence.

“It used to be, ja. Surely, you have other deliveries?” the owner said. The rest of his body was behind the door, out of the delivery boy’s view.

“I don’t mind. I like getting to know my clients. You never know what people are going through. On one of my deliveries, I happened to see—”

“You must be on your way now!” yelled the owner, about to shut the door.

“Oh! Sorry, sir. Don’t forget to—”

“Ja! Ja! I was on my way to get dressed.”

“I meant don’t forget to clean the doorknobs. Paint is hard to get out of brass!”

But the owner had already pushed the door closed.

On the edge of the bed, the owner moved into a seated position on the bed. Of course, he didn’t want to disturb his wife. He balanced himself strategically, not too close to her and not too far off of the bed – the package rested on his lap. Although the package wasn’t his, it was, after all, his right to open it. He signed for it. She lived in his home. She paid for it with his money. Surely, it belonged to him.

The package was light too. With one poke, the owner tore at the corner. He wasn’t satisfied. There was no need to bite at the opening, but he did so anyway. Another impulse to bite. He had been doing a lot of biting lately. Once the hole was big enough, he wiggled out the items.

Three t-string panties.

Each with a different leopard-print pattern. His favourite.

“Sweetie, you remembered! You always remember!”

A smile lit his face, only for a brief moment. He wanted to turn over and thank her, kiss her even, but he just left her. Instead, he motioned toward the mirror. One of the t-string panties was hooked on his pinky finger.

Again, he examined his own body. The sight of his belly made him cringe. Little by little, his confidence deflated. There was something missing. In the air, something had shifted, too. A part of him had had enough. The nakedness was getting too gruesome.

The knocking started again.

The owner felt nervous. With a few pulls, the t-string panty covered his body. And although not satisfied, he stepped away from the mirror, wiping his tears as he went to lay his body on the bed.

Finally, he placed his body beside her, holding her close from behind. His hands naturally clenching around her neck, as it did early that morning. The blood from her mouth trailed all over his forearms. With the package empty beside the bed, and the echoing of the knocking eventually quieting to a stop, he made one last note to self...

Don’t forget to clean the doorknobs.