painted cheeks

by Rachel H.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him through the crack of the bathroom door, shaving the blue off his face. The air smelled of laundry and woodsy citrus, a clean barbershop scent belabored by the sterile undertone of the razor’s hiss. He tilted toward the mirror, not a dullard, but precise, saving himself one swipe at a time.

The smell unspooled something old in me: my father shaving, me perched on the counter, legs swinging. I remember the day he came out without his beard, and I cried, convinced a stranger had entered our house. Children always fear strange men most of all.

When no one was around, I’d climb up to the mirror, the counter cold against my bare legs. The glass sat just high enough that I had to rise on tiptoe. I’d paint my cheeks with thick swirls of cream—fluffy, whipped, blue like toothpaste, sweet as pretend frosting. Cherub-cheeked, I admired myself until the foam dried, stiff as meringue.

Now I watch this man, razor gliding across his jaw, and wonder if, when he is finished, I’ll recognize him at all.

Photo of Caroline Huckeba

BIO: Rachel H. is a writer and master’s student based in Dallas, Texas. She holds a B.S. in Psychology with a minor in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at Dallas, where she studied narrative, mental health, and the spaces where psychology and storytelling overlap. Her creative work has been published in Blood+Honey, Minetta Review, Eunioa Review, and Rappahannock Review, and she was nominated for Best Original Screenplay at the Art Is Alive Film Festival (2025).