We’re looking at a girl.  The girl is in a bathroom.  A tiny bathroom, one with bad lighting – the single fluorescent lamp swinging on its chain.  The bulb flickers.  The walls a sickly white.  The lamp swings, creaks.

The girl is standing before the mirror.  She is barefoot except for fishnet stockings.  There’s a hole between her big toe and her second toe, a little rip where the black criss-cross has frayed.  Another hole at the back of her left heel.  One spot where the water from the floor has wetted the fishnet.  The bathroom floor is tiled, white.  That ugly, furry growth with no name between the tiles.  Wet.

The girl is standing before the mirror.  The mirror is scratched, more furry growth between its edges and the wall.  Scratched sink, cracked ceramic.  Toothpaste stains around the plug.  The sound of water dripping from the showerhead.  A slow, measured space between each drop, like holding your breath, like being underwater.  No time here, only dripping.

The girl is standing before the mirror.  She is putting on lipstick.  Smudging the corners.  Rubbing crimson into every wrinkle, every crease.  Glossy.  The care taken with every stroke, as she tilts her head, how’s it look from this angle, from that.  Nothing in the world has ever been so elaborate.

The girl is standing before the mirror, putting on lipstick, the water dripping.  The girl looks up, looks through the looking glass, and sees.  She sees the moment.

We’re looking at a girl, in a bathroom.  Not how she looks, or who she’s looking for, or what it is she sees when she looks in the looking glass.  We’re looking at the girl.  Any time, any bathroom.  Any girl.