I remember the child; with simple instructions; always run the hot first. In his innocence the child was sometimes chilled in deep water or scalded in shallow.
The man, filling the morning shaving basin, stands. Not yet straight from the nights curled slumber, not too tall for the bathroom mirror (installed as ever by midgets). Almost entirely subconscious knowledge flows around him: Is he first to use the bathroom; has he showered; the overnight temperature sometimes running off the single-glazed pane. The hot tap first of course, but whether to allow a single swirled rinse or to let some portion of the cool copper empty before the plug? A moment now of repose, leaning gently, arms stretched out, hands just below the taps as the water level rises. Eyes closed he hears the approaching symphony of creaking pipes, expansion playing the un-insulated pipes against wooden joists or, eyes open, watches the roiling vortices where convection currents are tangled by the incoming flow and, in the winter, the puffs of vapour reach up to the glass to gather and drip once more.
No need to risk a finger, the older skin feels infra-red from an inch away and correlates the vapour level, the patterns of refraction and that more trustworthy internal timepiece. The first cupped handful holds no surprise. Warm enough to soften bristle, but not to open pores; comforting heat in the winter to assuage the colder soap, refreshing in summer to rinse the nighttime sweats. All the way to the rinse, not focused on spillage, on the motion of hands, the closing of eyes, but senses alive to the waking of the house, the world, the homemaking automata, the mass transport systems, the annual swelling of the spiders and plans for the weekend.
