The window in the water closet is about fifty years old. It frames textured glass so no one can look in at the lady of the house. She should be sleeping, but catches the alternating colors of some emergency flickering through, and wonders if the blur is maybe her taxes at work processing the corpse of someone she knew, scattered about the thrillway just outside the block.
“How’s your shower, darlin’?”
I refill her crystal. Her robe is at the cleaners. The paper won’t arrive until 6 am.