His head lifts. His gaze dives back down into the grottoes of the Post . Just make sure that it matches my shirt. His spool of dental floss. A fresh handkerchief that my mother has ironed.
Breakfast is over.
My father lifts himself. He marches up to the bathroom to brash and floss his teeth, and to administer olive oil to his dark, straight hair, which he keeps well cut. Tightness of scalp promotes early hair loss. He brushes his hair with ruthless vigor. My parents' bedroom is on the ground floor of our apartment, at the greatest possible distance from the bathroom upstairs.