Fingers tap-dancing on a keyboard. The splash of water in the white bowl of the sink. The eternal whisper of the fan. And the sounds of my own body - air rushing in and out of my lungs, joints re-aligning with soft pops as I stretch, the pine-needle sound of fingernails scratching bare skin. I wonder why the heat makes me itch.

I put on my darkest lipstick and toss my hair all over my left shoulder, pouting at the mirror like a magazine girl in the eighties. The waxy taste of the lipstick lingers even after I scrub my lips with a tissue. I look like a little girl playing dress-up.

Later, after my shower, I will run my fingers across my guitar. It is not blue, but I don't think it plays things as they are, either.