On that Tuesday in January, when her life changed forever, Martine Rhodes woke with a headache, developed a sour stomach after washing down two aspirin with grapefruit juice, guaranteed herself an epic bad - hair day by mistakenly using Dustin's shampoo instead of her own, broke a fingernail, burnt her toast, discovered ants swarming through the cabinet under the kitchen
sink, eradicated the pests by firing a spray can of insecticide as ferociously as Sigourney Weaver wielded a flamethrower in one of those
old extraterrestrial - bug movies, cleaned up the resultant carnage with paper towels, hummed Bach's Requiem as she solemnly consigned the
tiny bodies to the trash can, and took a telephone call from her mother, Sabrina, who still prayed for the collapse of Martie's marriage three years after the wedding.
She sees beauty in the
tiniest of details: the curve of the silhouette of a woman's face, the arrangement of the
old pipes beneath the even
older sink in the corner of a Manhattan studio, the private thoughts that take shape in a best friend's eyes.
Everything turned out very pretty, but in our
old house there's only one bathroom, not a powder room where a
tiny sink would be more appropriate.
Old materials, such as a weathered wooden vanity table and thrift shop mirror, blend seamlessly with the vessel
sink and modern fixtures in this
tiny bath.