I lay on my back, sinking into the mattress. As I stared pensively into the bathroom, my right arm hung over my head manipulating a captive curl. The four o’ clock winter light survived weakly where it filtered in, barely touching some of the counter, glass, and mirror; nevertheless, the chosen pieces shined brightly in comparison to the vast grey. Half of the window remained uncovered and towards the bottom of the top rested a bit of condensation. Observing it in silence, I decided that I felt as if I was in a frosted martini glass looking onto a bleak neighborhood. It was silent and passive. Only I stirred, playing with my black pearl between my first two fingers and thumb, like I was some pirate captain coveting my own true beauty.