The shower faucet stares down at me, unrelenting with her many eyes, crying forth. Cold in sadness, hot in anger, steaming so the whole bathroom knows. The mirror no longer shares her secrets, in fear of who might come to wipe away the steam, showing her true self. The toilet bowl says, “There goes that faucet again.” The knob puffs out his chest and says, “I can do this.” The drain gurgles in agreement. The knob is turned and the whole bathroom sighs, except for the shower faucet. Empty-eyed and resigned to stare forth, studying the white basin of the bath tub and the white tiles on the wall, wondering if this is really all that a faucet like her is made for.