Hunching over the tepid bowl of water, I wet my face again, lathering the soap between my hands before scrubbing away a month or more's dirt from my skin. The balmy scents of almond milk and honey filled my nose and clung to my skin.

Once, I'd rinsed, and while my eyes were still closed, I felt a towel pushed into my hand. "Thanks," I muttered and dried myself. Admiring the shaving set-up, I asked, "Did you bring a mirror?"

Hayashi tapped his hand on the floor directly in front of him. "No. I have no mirror." When I didn't immediately move, he insisted. "Come closer; I won't be able to reach."

"You're serious?"

Hayashi nodded and shrugged from the black knit cardigan he wore over an equally black, loose-fitting tank top, revealing his arms. They were tan and lithely muscular, and unlike mine, they were practically hairless. Such smoothness beckoned to be touched, but of course, I wouldn't. I'd learned to look and not touch. Instead, I rubbed my fingertips into my own palm. It was rough, and worked and didn't sate my urge. Trying to imagine the softness his skin might have, my mind betrayed me and landed on a memory of Alison. My jaw clenched unhappily, and my bottom lip almost quivered when a thought stung me; perhaps I'd never get to touch or be touched by someone ever again.

I was jarred back to reality when Hayashi insisted: "Closer." He had a hair tie clenched between his teeth. Then, he lifted his arms to gather his long, silky black hair into a low, doubled-over ponytail. My eyes were drawn to the line his bicep made in the sculpture of his arm as, once again, I mindlessly shuffled closer.

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He was still dissatisfied with where I'd positioned myself, though, and he shook his head. Tucking his calves under his thighs, he closed the gap between us until his knees touched the crisscross of my shins. Closer still, his chest brisked my shoulder when he leant past me to drag the water basin nearer.

Silently, I watched as he wet his brush and swirled the shaving soap into a foam with it. Any moment now, he was going to start, but instead, he paused, set down his tools, and stared, inspecting the beard he was about to contend with. Whenever he mumbled to himself, and he did so often, it was always in his native tongue. My questioning grunt had him repeat himself so that I could understand.

"It needs cutting first."

"Alright." I nodded and pulled the towel over my lap to catch the clippings.

Picking up the scissors, he lightly took my chin and steered my head to the side. "How short?"

"I don't mind." I shrugged.

"A clean shave then." With that, he began trimming away my hair as close to my skin as possible and muttered, "Like last summer."

Side-eyeing him, curiosity furrowed my brow, but I didn't dare ask why he remembered how I'd worn my beard last summer. It was an odd thing to recall about a stranger. Instead, I concentrated on his concentrating face.

What was going through his mind? Why was he doing this? He'd made it clear that we weren't friends. I couldn't imagine a man like Hayashi wanting to be friends with someone like me anyway. He handled himself with such tact, such discipline. He was never clumsy. He never said too much. Every task he undertook, he did so with such meticulous elegance that it was impossible not to watch in awe. My mind prattled on and on, but I kept returning to the same ponderings: What was going through his mind? Why was he doing this?

It dawned on me eventually. Hayashi was a good man. In his acts of service, he showed that he was kind-hearted, generous with his time and attention, and, most of all, a good man.