She dyes her hair first. Ink spills down her blonde curls, hesitating at the tips. I watch her in the mirror from the bathroom floor, pleas tipping my tongue. The shutters sway on their hinges and her suitcase is at the door with the zipper jammed halfway. She wrings her hair and washes her hands. Her callouses are stained steel blue now. She leaves the sink with dye smearing the eggshell countertop. The door clicks shut, and I listen to the leaky faucet. The drop engorge, drinking from the mouth of the facet, then they fall. Drop. Drop. Drop. Stay.