She called to me from the bathtub.
She’d been soaking for the last hour.
I looked out the hotel window for a while,
then walked barefoot to the bathroom.
She’d done a lot of cocaine.
I knelt beside her,
and washed her long arms
with a white wash cloth.
Room service, with its silver domes,
went clanking by.
Silence filled the marble bathroom.
Drops of water fell from the faucet.
Finally, she spoke,
"Why are you still wearing your clothes?"