she waits until the door closes,
and pauses,
and listens,
while her hands grip the bathroom counter,
white like the first blizzard of a snowy December,
and hawklike she listens,
for the slightest creak of the floorboards,
for a stifled hum or a muffled footstep,
and when she hears no one,
her face begins to break,
like a piece of china crashing to the ground in slow motion,
and with one shuddering breath,
she allows herself to fall to pieces.