"...five, six, seven, eight," I finished counting. Some things are finite, I thought as I carefully folded eight sheets of toilet paper. I flushed, holding the lever for an eight count.

"Mary, are you almost done?" My sister didn't beat me to the bathroom today.

"I just have to brush and floss. I'll be out in a few minutes."

"You can't be late again, Mare," Betsy warned.

I stepped before the vanity to execute three hundred sixty brisk strokes with my new toothbrush and two pea-sized dollops of paste.

Unhappy circles and lines stared back at me from inside the mirror. In response to my reflection, I touch my feet, my belly button and my breasts three times before I can look at myself again. Some things are finite. I floss until the white strands are red and my mouth tastes like warm metal.

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