Nude Men

They give themselves to me. Clapping is a gift of their entire being. Do you realize that everyone, anyone, would willingly have me over for dinner at any time?”
    “Hmm.” She doesn’t realize that ad my dreams have hair in common.
     
    O ne day I look at myself in the mirror and I am paralyzed with horror. I am virtually certain that I see a dreadful change in my face. I look more like the creature in the painting than I used to. I look more like Sara. I rush to the drawer in our cabin and take out the photograph. I compare my face in the mirror to the face of the creature. There is less of a difference than there used to be, I’m sure of it.
    No, I must be imagining it. I must be going a little insane, that’s ad. It’s temporary. Tomorrow my mind will be back to normal, and so will my face.
    The following day, my face is not back to normal; it may even be a bit worse: I look younger, prettier, more feminine. Shitness. At breakfast I examine everyone to see if they notice a change in my face. No one seems to.
    Later that day, Laura pulls me aside and says, “Jeremy, I’ve been thinking about something.”
    Here it comes; she’d make a polite, discreet inquiry concerning the change in my face.
    But she doesn’t. She says, “I think I’d like to modify my wid.”
    “In what way?”
    “Well, I decided that finally it would be a good idea to have someone stand at my grave and clap forever or until my money runs out. Shifts allowed.”
    “Why?”
    “I should have thought of it myself: It would make me feel better. When I’m dead I probably won’t care, but now it makes me feel better to think that there will always be someone standing there clapping at me. I want to state that in my will. I won’t feel well until I do. I must do it now.”
    “I think you can wait until we get back to New York.”
    “But what if something happens to me before then?”
    “It’s highly unlikely.”
     
    T he following morning, my face is changed even more. I can bear it no longer. In the galley, I pull Laura aside, show her the photo of Henrietta’s painting, and ask if she doesn’t think it looks mighty much like me.
    “It’s a painting of Sara,” she says. “How could it look like you?”
    “First of all, it is not a painting of Sara, because I posed for it. It is a painting of me and Sara. But don’t you think it looks a lot like me right now? Look at my face.” I hold the photo next to my cheek.
    Laura looks at my face and at the photo. “No. It looks like Sara,” she says. And her eyes remain fixed on mine awhile. I’m sure she’s lying.
    I cut myself a piece of cake, put it on a plate, grab a fork, and go to our cabin to eat it and think about my problem. I sit on my bed and slowly, thoughtfully, eat the cake. I look at the Mickey Mouse mask nailed to the wad, but it doesn’t inspire me with any helpful thoughts. It looks demonic. Suddenly, I am reminded of something. I will do what Dorian Gray did to his demonic painting, and if I die in the process, as he did, so be it. I place a pillow on my lap, put the photograph on the pillow, grab my cake fork, and stab the creature in the chest. The fork prongs pierce the photo, but I don’t feel any stabbing pain in my chest, which is just as wed. However, the spell might be broken now and my face be back to normal. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I’m not back to normal.
    I leave the cabin in search of our host. When I find him, I show him the photo of Henrietta’s painting and ask, “Don’t you think this painting looks exactly like me?”
    He looks at me with surprise and then smiles. But I am not smiling at him. I am looking at him earnestly, so he sobers up and says, good-naturedly, “She’s a pretty young girl. Is she a relative of yours? Paintings can be deceiving. I don’t see much resemblance here, but in real life you two probably look more alike. It’s a shame the picture has this strange injury,” he says, sliding his finger over the fork holes.
    Perhaps he’s telling the truth. Perhaps I’m making it up, the resemblance.
    But at dinner they are definitely looking at me strangely, Laura and the host. They are having trouble hiding their shock at the metamorphosis in my face. I catch them gazing at me, and as soon as I look at them, they avert their eyes politely. I’m nervous. I’m panicked.
    The next morning there is no longer any difference between my face in the mirror and the face in the photo. I look fifty