bath · 4 panes · nothing in particular
a frosted glass, the kind that gives up the world and gives back only its colours. greens and slate and the milky surround of the basin's light. when somebody passes outside they appear as a darker shape that moves at the speed of a person — long enough to be a person, short enough not to be a tree.
the crack runs from the top right corner, jags twice, and ends on the iron rail at the centre. it was here when the house was bought. nobody is certain whether it began in the glass or began in something the glass remembers. when the bath is hot and the steam thickens, the crack does not disappear; it becomes the clearest thing in the room. a fine line back to the world outside.
the catch is a small latch that turns sideways. the last person to bathe closes it; the last person to bathe is usually whoever feels coldest in the morning. on cold mornings the inside of the pane is wet and the crack runs as a darker line through the wet. on warm mornings the crack is bright as a hair.
field-note · bath a moth touched the outside of the glass for the length of one breath last August. the silhouette was a soft star that did not leave a print.