He almost slipped on the shampoo that spilled to the suctioned rubber mat on the shower floor. When he caught himself before chipping a tooth, he clutched the handle on the wall and sighed deep relief, looking down at the drain as the spout battered the back of his head and the water dripped off his eyelids and nose and lips. Eventually he convinced himself to shut off the water and step out. In the steamy bathroom, he looked at his face. This was sixty-five. This was what he had become. He looked at his stomach. Loose skin grinning through his shreds of youth. He looked at the back of his hands.
He ought to cut his nails.