We always met in mirrored rooms
where businessmen watched themselves drink.
I remember his face once removed,
tiny versions in an endless tunnel,
fractured eyes, a speaking mouth
and how I’d glimpse my own face, large
and powdered – a girl in a hotel bar
with a patent handbag and a big laugh.
Even alone in that mirrorless room
he never looked at me directly.
After that it was somewhere I knew
blind – the constant purr of the mini bar,
the digital clock humming the small
red hours, his erratic breathing.