[It might've looked like this]

It might've looked like this:

a woman standing

in a hotel bathroom

becomes two—the other

on the surface of the mirror.

She reveals only as much

as the other is willing

to share—pulling their

hair back, unbuttoning

their blouse—

though it's impossible

to tell who leads,

who made the other

so nervous.

She leaves her

in the mirror and walks

into the bedroom, careful

not to smudge or disturb

its pristine state of beige.

But the champagne flutes

and slippers, the folded

eye masks—they tempt her.

The woman waits. Sits. Paces.

Her imprint disappears

from the bed.

In the shelf of mirrors,

her face multiplies

through a row of lowballs.

He appears at the door.

Eyes, mouth—

she knows them—

the silver almonds,

the pale outline

of his lips curling

into corners.

He unpacks, undresses,

turns off the light,

and darkness binds

them together like a sap.

In the tub, their edges

warp together beneath

the water line.

Filling and collapsing,

they become the eddy of breath

and body passing between them,

man and woman pressed

and pooling like oil.

Morning turns to

silver on the bathwater.

Alone again, she wonders

what it might've looked like:

If his face really changed faces

like a slot machine,

if he saw through

others' eyes—who had he become?

Who had seen?

If it was he that held her

sleeping body the whole night.

She cares less to hear

what she said in her sleep,

doesn't need to see his face—

its parts already known,

the way the dark revised them—

but what it looked like

listening to her dreams

coming through the mouth

that held the edge

of the other he hadn't touched.