The bathroom light
hummed. Steam curled off
the sink, clinging to
the mirror. She turned
the tap, letting the
cold water bite her
wrists. The day's noise
— voices, deadlines,
the sharp edge of a
remembered argument —
drained with the swirl.
She pressed her palms to
the tile. The coolness
spread up her arms. Her
breath slowed, a tide
pulling back. The mirror
fogged, then cleared.
*She watched the droplets
race down the glass, and
let them.
It's done.
The tap squeaked off.
The silence was not
empty. It was full. She
dried her hands on the
towel, and the fabric
was soft, and the
evening held her, and
she didn't move.