She soaked in the bath tub. Across from her was a bottle of “ocean” scented bath wash. She had bought it, and probably felt good about it, but it now kind of embarrassed her. It’s face looked weird. And somehow the weird face of the bottle held the truth of her, how weird she was.

Surely she had tried to choose carefully when she bought the soap, weighing decisions in a neon-isle. But the bottle of soap, no matter how nice or expensive would grow odd and crusty in her care.

After the bath she might get ready, smoothing her face and mascaraing her lashes. She would feel good. But,  if she looked too long she would begin to see  her weirdness, something bad or shameful structured about her nose or teeth.

In highschool her best friend was Lauren. At thrift stores, instead of buying little boy’s tee shirts, Lauren bought home items. She bought a set of green glass dishes. She had a set of vintage coasters and some lamp shades without lamps. They sat in a box in her closet.

She and Lauren would lie on the bed and talk about the future. “I will live in Berlin and wear black and white stripes. I will have a tiny apartment. I’ll burn nagchampa and eat blood oranges for breakfast.”

“When I am old I will have technicolored hair. I will  go to the market everyday, I’ll have a great collection of over sized rings and give precious rocks as gifts.”

This was an old game. It was very much like in kindergarten– “I am 17 and my name is Fifi and I drive a pink Lamborghini”

It was always about the kind of woman to be. Not knowing what you wanted to do, but imagining a sort of woman…and the objects, the things that made this kind of woman.

Their math teacher was a young with curly hair that looked over-brushed. She wrote at the black board quickly. Hair would fall into her mouth as she grew excited, explaining things.

The teacher once said: “I mean, with this stuff you gotta think outside the bun.”

In the bath, she wonders puzzled, if Lauren still has the box of plates in her closet. Lauren still lives with her parents. Does she live in the same room?

After the bath, she might put on deodorant and get into bed. She would not intend to drift to sleep, but after the warm bath and stark cold, her eyes would grow heavy. Now, she is standing in her parent’s house. She knows every object in detail.

Next to the toilet in the bathroom is a basket with her Mother’s old nail polish. Each bottle has a face she knows so well. She holds the bottle of bright red which says “Love my Nails”. There is a mauve bottle coated in dried polish. All of the bottles are dusty. They are a little embarrassing, her Mother is probably embarrassed of them.

The Mother sits in her renovated bathroom. The mirror reflects the recessed lights, which sparkle, cut and brilliant. The Mother opens the drawers and takes out some make-up.

There are some things in the drawer that the Mother might feel not good about.  Maybe when she pulls these items out, she sees her own unhappiness mirrored back. The feeling that just underneath everything is not okay. That there is something like guilt, something to feel bad about.

When the Mother feels in charge she will take the embarrassing items–a tube of old lipstick, a comb, some blush– and she will put them in the other bathroom. The one the girl grew up in.