Between swollen gums broke a tablespoon of blood; looking like the kind I'd make on 10-year-old afternoons with Karo syrup to accompany bruises and cuts that came from Mom's crumbling Avon. Just minutes before I'd realized that I hadn't been bathing all week, yet rather than feeling the usual tug, I'd caved only to the idea of how uncharacteristic it was. I stood at the sink with steamy mirror skin dripping like a boxer after a hard fought bout. No trunks; drooping off my waist a towel that was once sage green with some sort of Eucalyptus print, now bleached nearly white. A mouthfull of blood and a fledgling receding hairline made obvious by water-gathered hair.