They say there's a ghost in the bathroom here. I've passed her many times, waiting to hear her cry. That's what she does, cry in the bathroom, like any girl. Like the girls in the bathroom at the Jr. High dance. Like my mother after my father's pale hand would strike her. She only cries for men, someone said.
Outside her prison doors, I wait for those that force this ocean, for the Indian angel I cannot be, for the girl who lives in the bathroom crying for a man that is long dead.
This is where the most intimate truths occur; the ghosts floating on the flat white bed where the words or the hands dance, where the children cry, regardless of their ages, when the things that we say destroy each other.