Vending machine

She sits, slumped, on a crusty toilet in some public bathroom. A throne fit for a queen. Her lace panties are bunched up around her ankles. She wears heels to heighten the experience. She stands out amongst the red souls, for hers is black like the soot on the marble tiles. Little craters form as tears fall to the floor. Smeared mascara looks like her ego has finally made it out, dripping down her cheek. She licks her lips in hope of tasting a trace of him. Standing up, her dress falls to the floor as if it were caught in a lie. Her footprints are the uncanny shape of a price tag. Leaning down to pull her dress up, she dissolves onto the floor. The stall door is riddled with profanity. Each word teases her, like a nightmare late at night. She has hit rock bottom.

He opens the door and looks down at her. She is at her lowest, on her knees in that stall. His presence fills her with false hope. She sucks it all in as she reaches a bitter resolve. He tugs her hair and pulls her off of him, discarding her. She looks up at the perforated slates in the ceiling, like stars in the night sky. The hypnotic flickering of the lightbulb above the mirror finally puts her to sleep. She dreams of her knight in shining armor, a man on a wooden horse. But, she wakes up to the sound of the janitor. Her trusty friend with a mop, here to make things right once more.