No, I remind myself. I didn’t lose it. It was stolen from me.
• • •
I stand at the last sink. My reflection holds steady in the mirror as women move in and out of the stalls behind me. Have I aged in three years? I apply sunscreen every day, but there are faint lines sweeping the gray under my eyes. When we were together, East would hold my face, his fingertips curling around my jaw, his thumbs sweeping that soft flesh beneath my eyes. He would put his nose nearly to mine, and there was no one in the whole world except for us.
It’s like, I think now, he marked my flesh; like if I lean closer to the mirror, I’ll see his thumbprints in that gray skin. The last time he touched me like that was my last Saturn solstice. That night, I drank more and more, because that’s what you do at Saturna
