She suspected he’d been washing his dick in the sink again. And that the cat, its pumicey tongue sailing precise, so calculated, had been kidnapping particles of water from her glass. She figured that somebody had been taking her shampoo. Gradually the bottle had begun to wane, leaving behind a dull, clear horizon. Her hundred and one sunshine’s stolen with just a few squeezes, glistening somebody else’s hair to life. She imagined the hair laughing and carefree, like some hysterical man washing his waxy car. The wind & bubbles flowing through his hairy face and hands then settling on the sink where his dick would hang flaccid and freshly cleaned. He is pretty good at washing cars she thought, but not really himself. She wondered how many moths she’d eaten, eaten and shared with others. Must have been thousands, sort of like a layer of yeast flakes that garnished every meal.