By day you're a pasty face at the top of a grey flannel suit. You're a worked over fistful of dough baking under fluorescent lights. You're a statue on a subway, a coffee burning engine with low fuel efficiency, a sense of purpose in prolonged hibernation.
By night you're an animal bred for excess. You're a tongue extended waiting for a pill from God. You're a flash of underwear lost in a riot of bare skin. You're a laughing magazine ad pasted on the window of a 24 hour diner. Come morning, you're a glitter stain on a pillow.
The cocoon in which you are reborn is your own lonely twin bed. At 5:30, you crawl in, not bothered by the watery winter sunset because your blinds are never open. At 8 or 9, you wake up, shower off the sour smell of desperate sleep and daily frustration, apply cherry red lipgloss and five inch platform heels. You pack a tiny handbag with your touch-up kit, taxi fare, candy-colored cigarettes, and license, cell phone, keys: the only accessories that fall in the union of your two identities. You are out the door, bubbling with the secret excitement of starting a day over in the dark.