Bright white bland bathroom. The emptiness of it keeps expanding. The pedestal sink. The tub. Blank walls. Gray cheap laminate floor. It’s so clean it’s without life. A large man opens the door to my left while I sit on the toilet. He’s all that matters now. His anger is vibrant, overwhelming. Something is finally happening. The bathroom is alive now, but in the wrong way. He is the father of my daughter’s boyfriend. The wife follows the husband into the room. She’s picking at the dry flakey skin of her bottom lip. Faded red lipstick blurs the edges of her mouth. They walk through the bathroom, scanning the floor, the corners. It’s as if they don’t see me here on the toilet. I say, “You can’t do this.” I pull up my pants. Flush. I go out, calling my daughter’s name. She can explain this. My husband, walking toward me in the hallway, holds up his arm, showing me his wrist. “They took my watch.” It’s been replaced with something large and bulky. We want his watch back. I go looking for the angry man. If I have to violently take the watch back, I will. He’s coming toward me. The hallway seems so narrow now. The wife, behind him, small and uncertain. They are still looking for something on the ground. I want them to look up. To see me. But they scan the white carpet. I call out, “Make his mouth disappear!” It disappears. He doesn’t like that. His mouth comes back. I call out, “Make his eyes disappear!” Nothing happens. “His hair!” Gone. “Mouth!” Gone, but his hair returns. Hair. Ears. Nose. Mouth. Things go away only to return. Except his eyes, I can never get rid of his eyes. I’m cycling through his features, going as fast as I can. Mouth. Hair. Ears. Nose. Everything gets tangled and suffocates. He and his wife, concerned about his face, stop searching for what they came here for.