I get to the Princess Suite, fish the keycard from my hoodie pocket, swipe to unlock the enormous, weighted door. The room has been serviced since I left, hours and days and lifetimes ago, and smells less fungal. Either that or my senses are dulled. I beeline for the bathrobe, folded now on the corner of the bed, and slip myself inside its safe embrace. I ease under the covers and turn on the TV. A model with deep black skin and a shaved head stomps around a shiny, wet, fake New York. Your loss, Bro, a knowing voiceover commands. I stare. I like this woman’s story, would like to buy the mascara she’s selling and support her efforts to show Bro what he’s lost. The commercial floats into a tampon ad and I listen to another woman’s voice, telling me what I need to be happy like her.

I WAKE UP an hour later and the TV’s still flashing. I have to pee. This is a positive sign, a sign the anesthesia is almost all worn off, which I’m supposed to want. Every hour that passes between this new face, new life, and the surgery I lived through to get them, shows me I can survive; I can be different from Naurene, @annawrey. But first, I have to get to the toilet. I have to pass the mirror and face myself, which I’ve successfully avoided until now. I cross my legs, squeeze, wait until I can wait no longer.

The bathroom light, that now-familiar hum, makes me black out for a moment when I flip the switch. I hold the door-frame, wait for my eyes to adjust, then shuffle in, bunch up the robe, sit. Painkillers make my pee slow. But I wait, patient, and like an old friend, it returns, falls to the bowl. I sit there a while after it’s over. Gingerly, I stand, flush, turn to see myself.