The rhythms of this ritual are deeply ingrained. Lean forward, closer to the mirror, bracing hips against the sink. Old bruises accepting the hard angles. One hand to pull my shirt away from my left collarbone. The other to poke and prod the shadow I saw there.
It’s very bright in the deserted bathroom at work. The overhead strip lighting bounces off the walls, the tiled floor, the gleaming white of the sink and toilet. In the mirror, the room behind me is blanched out of sight. All that is in focus is my own pale face and pinpricked pupils. Blotchy redness is rising out of my collar and climbing up my throat. Turning my head slightly, I avoid catching my own eye in the reflection.
