You filter back through the shop. The lanky guy is at the counter again, pouring something from a long, narrow bottle into a wide mouthed mug. He doesn't notice you. The halfwalls are burnt orange with beige-yellow moulding. Lined up from this direction it's easy to see the line of a corridor. One, two, third door on the left, open before you can think about it. Nausea. There's someone at the sink and you stomp into a stall and it slams on accident as you go to latch it. Sat down on the toilet with your pants still up, head in your hands, fingers kneading your hairline. What's wrong with you? ... You hear the water stop and a bit later the door open and close. There is a churning swell between your legs. Flex your legs. You haven't felt like this in a long time. You aren't being yourself. Raise one hand, deep inhale, then a quick, hard slap across the side of your face. ... Rinse your face in the egg-smell water and exit the bathroom.