Domenico

Domenico missed his confession manual. It had been a while since he’d talked to a priest, and many sins had gathered on the invisible list of Dom’s conscience. There were so many that he felt compelled to put them down on paper, adding new bullet points to the list as he shaved in front of an old cracked mirror. The straight razor glided up his neck, whispering as it left skin smooth and free of the foam. The tortoise shell handle felt familiar as ever in Domenico’s hand, and forced him to mourn Tassa, no—his father—each time he used it.