It's sort of like this...
A night out, eating at taco stands and pulling beers out of the cheap styrofoam cooler in the back seat of a 1974 Camaro. Wiping the grease on your jeans. Random dragging down a near empty street at the drop of a dime for no reason at all.
So, dig it.
Coming home late after a double at the Inn. Cocktail. Soup. A beer. Relaxation.
And because the hour is late, and you're kicked back, it's time for a shave.
Slap the hot water on the face. Use a badger brush to lather up the soap. Decidedly old school. The mellow fragrance blasting into your sinuses as you lather your face. You look in the mirror and then you glance down at the razor. It's empty so you turn the knob at the end of the stem. The panels at the head spread open, and you seat a new razor blade. Turn the knob again to slowly close the panels, locking the blade into place; two opposing edges competing for you attention.
The audible scrape across the face and the swish of the razor in the water as you methodically guide the razor, letting its weight do the work, no unlike a fine chef's knife.
You dab lather occasionally with the brush and go over that patch again. There is a subtle sting to it all, with the knowledge that the slightest slip will bring blood.
It's an odd hour of the morning. Neither light nor dark and the moon peeks in as the blade glides across skin. The earlier buzz is concentrated into a hard focus, and your breathing becomes measured; exact.
You stand straight and clean your razor and brush. All the while your skin blesses and curses you in a contradictory expression of relief. The rinse and grab a towel.
The cork pops on the Bay Rum, and you pour a pool of it into the cupped palm of your hand and then...
The slap of the alcohol burn dissipated by something deeper.
The Camaro of memory roars off into the night.