The small tiled room smells faintly of stale perfume and industrial cleaner. Just inside the curtain, the metal hook is coated in a fine patina of dust, and attached to it is a single wire hanger. It is empty of its plastic tip, bent slightly at the shoulder. The hook itself is anchored firmly to the wall, and when I shift my weight, it emits a low, rhythmic creak. Outside the glass, the store lights are off, and the tiled floor reflects the weak overhead bulb. The hanger remains there, suspended by the hook, as if waiting for a customer who will never arrive.
hush · uneasy