His name is John Kohler.  I’m not so wild about believing in him.  When I open my bathroom mirror I think I’ll close it to his rotten face, and all I see is my own.  I whip my head around to check the hallway all the time.  That’s where he dropped dead.

            I think he approves of me in various states of undress only.  The hallway has a full-length mirror, and I expect to see him there too.  But when my eyes catch the mirror, they linger on my own image.  I get distracted; my vanity takes over. 

            John Kohler was not a beloved man.  People didn’t ask where he was, just basked in his absence.  My next door neighbor had to realize that no one could be cooking asparagus for that many days.  He smelled so bad she had to pay a kid to break in through the fire escape.  He smelled so bad after two weeks and no less.

            It’s a miracle apartment if you can say no one died in it.  At least he doesn’t pressure me for any earthly favors.  I wonder if he would like it if I turned on some Judge Judy for him, or the Family Feud.  Maybe he would find me condescending.

            When we filled the hallway with a mirror, I thought only of the most opportune way to ogle myself in outfits.  That’s what I do most of the time.