Women are somewhat of a mystery to most men, but to Adam they were more of a mystery than to most. He was raised among brothers by a father who was more than a little relieved that his wife had not left him with a daughter when she shed this world. They were governed by fraternity, the familial bond lacking the softer feminine nuances, and colored with the back slapping, loud and crass tribalism of men. It was not a home to bring girls. Dishes were in the sink and no one ever had to dust as their weekly chore. You could not have your girlfriend over for Sunday dinner when it was in front of a baseball game on TV, and you did not want her seeing your dirty tub or the screwdriver resting innocently in the tooth brush holder.
Adam did not understand why 3 p.m. was lotion time. It seemed that every afternoon at the same time he found several women ritualistically applying some kind of moisturizer. They all spread it on their arms, and in the summer their legs, with the same kinds of hand motions. They reminded him of hula dancers, cupping their hands and rolling them at the wrists. He wondered who taught them synchronized lotioning, or was it just something women were born knowing how to do. He looked at his own hands and didn't feel particularly arid. He leaned into the mirror to examine his face. His skin had a scrubbed glow, like he had just been shoveling snow, brightened by his corn silk colored eyebrows. His face stayed clear without much help, just the soap he used on the rest of his body. But women seemed to have a regular maintenance regiment, like they were shepherding a cranky diesel tractor.
Adam's wide jaw spread his smile unignorably on his face. He was thinking about the strange ways of women and a pretty girl named Rosario asked him what was so funny. She answered his questions and laughed at his notions of collective female unconscious. She did not think there was a domino effect for freshen up spritzes of perfume. Adam tried to run into her most days so they could chat a little. He looked forward to it, and was always disappointed when he went into the kitchenette and only found a cloud of soapy flowers.
Adam did not understand why 3 p.m. was lotion time. It seemed that every afternoon at the same time he found several women ritualistically applying some kind of moisturizer. They all spread it on their arms, and in the summer their legs, with the same kinds of hand motions. They reminded him of hula dancers, cupping their hands and rolling them at the wrists. He wondered who taught them synchronized lotioning, or was it just something women were born knowing how to do. He looked at his own hands and didn't feel particularly arid. He leaned into the mirror to examine his face. His skin had a scrubbed glow, like he had just been shoveling snow, brightened by his corn silk colored eyebrows. His face stayed clear without much help, just the soap he used on the rest of his body. But women seemed to have a regular maintenance regiment, like they were shepherding a cranky diesel tractor.
Adam's wide jaw spread his smile unignorably on his face. He was thinking about the strange ways of women and a pretty girl named Rosario asked him what was so funny. She answered his questions and laughed at his notions of collective female unconscious. She did not think there was a domino effect for freshen up spritzes of perfume. Adam tried to run into her most days so they could chat a little. He looked forward to it, and was always disappointed when he went into the kitchenette and only found a cloud of soapy flowers.
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