from
 DOMESTICITY
Sarah Bartlett

The ladies’ room is a gaudy pink affair, like the carved out shell of some little girl’s daydream. There are molting feather boas and burnt-out movie-star light bulbs up above the mirror, and rusting metal bars on the other side of the single tiny window. You check the stalls for red stilettos and leather boots, but all are empty. You are alone. You hoist yourself up to the vanity and lean in close to your cracking reflection as you reapply your lipstick.

This is it, you tell yourself, avoiding your own eyes.

This is it.