On the shiny surface, the bathroom is a perfect escape for a thirty-seven-year-old mother such as myself. It's a safe haven in which you are guaranteed at least a decent certain percentage of allowable quiet alone time. But -
But.
There are not one, but two mirrors. They're hung side by side, like two lopsided eyeballs staring me back in the bathroom. They make me think of the close bright headlight of a train about to wreck. Or of the white-hot part of a flame - the intense point of impact that creates the impenetrable glow.
The mirrors never reflect what I expect them to. Let's just leave it at that.
But the bath is like a big warm hug. I simultaneously sink and float.
Paradoxes abound.
At least while the mind is racing, the body can relax.
