Someone came into the bathroom while I was in the stall. I heard running water, and then a hand banging on the paper towel dispenser, but it must have been empty because a male voice said: shit. The door opened and shut. I went out of the stall and saw the sink and floor covered with blood. I was getting towels from the cabinet beneath the sink when the door opened again and a young man came in, a rag in one hand, the other holding a towel to his chin. Let me help you, I said, wiping the basin, careful not to get blood on my hands. What happened, did you cut yourself? No, he shook his head, I just fell. Your chin, does it need stitches? I don't know, I haven't looked yet, and he pulled his hand away so that I could see, tipping his head up toward me like a child. I don't think so, I said. He sank down to his knees on the tiles then, faint or just stunned, I wasn't sure. I kept cleaning, one eye on him, and then he got up and we left together and he went to his own studio where his friends stood, waiting.