My toes are cold. I’m wide awake at an inconvenient hour in an unfamiliar place. In the audibly silent seconds, I muse. My thoughts drift from male to male, lingering on one tonight, intermingled with flashes of others, tomorrow another altogether.  I recall the jolt, the thrill of a hand, any hand, on my shoulder, the warmth that floods my body, starts at the point of contact and sinks to my toes and fingertips.

Sleep flirts with me but denies its intimacy, leaving me restless in someone else’s bed. I stand and walk to the bathroom, aware of my every sound in the heavy hush. I draw a bath and sit in it’s shallow beginnings, my arms wound about my legs, folded against my chest, curled up in myself, infantile. A distorted representation of me hangs upside down in the faucet, questioning.  Water rises to envelope me, baptizing me in the surreal. My thoughts are slow and detached, heavy but not grave, thick from exhaustion and the vodka-like effect of the hot water. I consider my complex: my need to be adored by the opposite sex. I am afraid of some men, intimidated by many, weirdly, obscurely, unexplainably attracted to most. I crave like an addict the affection of every male I encounter, hunger for a friendly touch. Any kind words or flattery leave me high for days and thirsting for more, their compliments the lifeblood of my complex.  Any man who withholds said affections is all the more desired, subject to obsession, overwhelmed with relentless appeals for admiration.

I rise slowly. The water moves with little grace, reforms to fill the space vacated by my body.  Dizziness briefly overtakes me. I study my body in the mirror. My cheeks and lips are flushed. I watch the way my skin folds, ripples as I move. Everything is white: the countertop, my men’s undershirt, the sheets. I bury myself in cool, crisp bedding. The silence is thinner, lighter now, and my thoughts are unchanging.