The earring is tinted around the back, she must have worn it a lot. He looks in the box, last glance, then gingerly puts the lid back on.

Standing up he heads over to his bathroom, humming a song he had heard on the radio. One of those catchy tunes – a fifty pop song.

The bathroom door is ajar, he peeks in, noticing the damp floor mat, cluttered counter.

“I just put your earring away, I must say that it really is beautiful, you sure do have taste”

He pushes the door open and walks in, the air is humid, a scent is heavy, weighing him down. It reminds him of cinnamon. His shower curtain is drawn, a foot is resting on on the wall of the bathtub. It is blueish, wrinkled.

He turns the sink on and begins washing his hands.