Sitting on the toilet, she watched him masturbate in the shower. It was in times like these that she questioned the logic of installing a transparent shower curtain. Through just one thin layer of clear plastic, she could see everything.

She watched him as he stroked himself to turgidity, feet squared a shoulder’s width apart, back leaning against the stall wall. She watched the name that whispered across his lips as he closed his eyes; it was not hers. She watched him lose interest halfway through, but power on anyway, rushing toward the point of no return as if eager to be done with it.

She watched those old familiar strains take over his body: his muscles went taut, his eyes rolled back, his hand skipped a beat and transitioned into its twitchy rallentando. She did not watch his discharge, lost as it was amid the volley of hot water, but she knew.

What was hers, gone down the drain.