She's fly-fishing for imperfections; tippy toes tipped, thighs pressed forward into the porcelain sink. She's oppressing the depressions and burrowing in deeper. She's taking notes with her fingertips; memorizing the encoding, the brail on her skin.
It speaks of caverns and chasms and canyons.
It's August and she's wearing an oversized sweatshirt – mustard and screen printed with the phases of the moon. The socks are her boyfriend's. He's out buying soy milk and cashew pieces and smoking weed in the park because the heat wave just ended so there's finally a reason to go outside. Spellbound in the bathroom, she's digging riverbeds into her left cheek.
Trapped in trance – same movement, same motion – she's excavating, renovating, redecorating. It's a way out.
She's been waxing and waning her whole life.