You are standing in a bathroom. There is a long mirror before you, wide enough for two. You lean in close. Press your nose against the chrome-painted plastic of the faucet. Extend your tongue. Listen to the ocean.

In your mind is nothing more than an image. Standing, bent over, on a sidewalk. Red pumps. The thick sole beneath the toe types. Ankles exposed. Blue veiny, milky. Lateral lines along the bone. Follicular specks. Blue jeans, tight. Not fitting her character or personality. That ass. Midriff exposed. Tramp stamp even more unusual. A top, hard to make out. Perhaps not wearing a top at all. Long, dark hair with light-colored strands. Thick and wavy. A mop. Face turned slightly toward you. Glimpse of those eyes. Sudden death. She shuts down every dream. The whore fantasy is a stream of delusion.

You lean into the mirror. Feel the cold glass. Pray for a cigarette and mutter mumble. Every message ignored. Every phone call left to voicemail. Every step a false sense of progress.

There is a bath next to you, across from the toilet.

You shower and attend a wedding.

You return to bed and wake up tomorrow.