Jane is reminded of another apartment, the one where the diver lived. But she won’t think about that. This is a different bathroom, with a Playboy smoothed under a travel magazine on the counter, a triangular bottle of cologne on a shelf, the absence of a medicine cabinet behind the mirror. And a scale on the floor, where the diver would have kept his masks, both the one he used underwater and the one he used in bed. It’ll be fine here. It’ll be different from the other nights. This time, it’ll be good. Jane peels up the edges of the travel magazine and takes a peek at the Playmate of the Month, blonde and for some reason wearing a crown. She lifts her eyes to the mirror and shrugs. This relaxes her shoulders, so she does it again. A strand of dark brown hair falls over her forehead, and she pushes it back with fingers that tremble in the critical light from the row of bulbs above the mirror. According to the reflection her face is bloated, her hair needs washing, and there are avocado-colored circles under her eyes.
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