I’m in love with a paper towel. I’d know her fall to the floor anywhere. The origami of her crush in my hand. The time it takes her to get damp and useless. Her patience, alone by the trash. Not one to cause mischief there, or, worse, to feign pathos. No, she just...is. More vulnerable than the most halting, circuitous, unrequited loveletter. Serrated at sexy, evil angles. And she'll do her job if she has to. Built in. Now I have to figure out how to stay in touch with her. We lead such different lives. And she might not even be interested in me. What do I know? I’m so naïve. I certainly don’t know what other people do alone in the bathroom. Not like her.