I'd rather look at your reflection in these blue tiles than see your face to mine. I'm watching you lick your bottom lip as if it had been cut, and your nose is stretched wide, moving in ceramic glaze. One of the hinges is broken off the towel rack, and your beige robe slips off of the hanging end. I cough and pick it up, seeing my dry hands against the wooden floor. You'll put your hands on my waist and pull me up, turn me around, and kiss me.

... I'm waiting, and my waist is so untouched that it feels numb. I hang your robe on the hook by the mirror, and catch you looking back at me. "You look better in blue," you say. "You should stay that way." You take one finger to my shoulder and guide me to the left, watching over my head as we both become mannerisms in the tiles.