GLORIA
She turns on the shower, waiting for the hot water to make it through the pipes, and looks at her naked body in the mirror. She’ll turn fifty-six next year—not bad, a goodish age. Not old enough to be out of her mind, but still old enough. Her breasts were the first to go—they went from high and firm to loose bags of flesh hanging from her chest, and she could’ve had plastic surgery, had them fixed for all eternity; they’d had plenty of money for that, but she didn’t. She didn’t like the idea of going under the knife, so instead she bought bras and creams and cure-alls, although nothing worked the way it was supposed to. And her stomach was always so flat, nearly concave, but is now a pooch that rounds out uncomfortably even though she’s never given birth to any babies, never been overweight. But that’s getting old, she thinks. Her eyes are bad, her lips lined. She’s spent thousands of dollars to make herself look better, but for what? None of that matters. She looks in the mirror and sees only herself.