In the fraudulent yellow light of the basement bathroom of some bar I can’t claim to know the name of, I rinse my hands in the sink and take a few extra moments to press my thumb into my palm, to feel the bones within shift and strain ever so slightly like the buried roots of a storm-blown oak. It smells like piss in here, like filth and stain and all the little parts of living that we somehow never mention, like every damp and dirty hole in which we hide ourselves away. I catch sight of eyes in the mirror and stare for a moment, study the muddy browns and flecks of green that are familiar, but of no comfort. “I’m so tired of you,” I softly tell the man in the glass. He nods and smiles a sad sort of grin.