Tall Gotham stands in shadow. Nightfall makes the streets pulse, and I can feel my heart beating out of my chest jaywalking at the intersection. Risk and reward. Infinity begs more of me somehow and I have not yet attained bliss, enlightenment, nirvana. Nor do I try. And that’s the point. Water circles the drain of a worn, white, porcelain sink. The chin touches the chest and looks back up at the mirror, smeared and dirty. Lighting low, fluorescent neon buzzing. It’s a crime show, it’s a dark place, it’s Danny Glover in Witness. Wait to wake. Without breaking eye contact, reaching for a brown paper towel to dry my hands, unenthused. Blinking once and checking under open stall doors for anything I may have missed. The ska checked floor is empty and scuffed. Make way for the break. For men in full black body suits to descend from unsuspecting ceiling tiles. Tied to bungee cables being expertly lowered. But no one comes. No one’s there. A droplet drips from the mouth of the sink.
