Olive Juice

The bathroom door opened and closed.

He didn’t move.

Someone moved to the urinal, humming under his breath.

He waited.

The man pissed for a minute or two, then washed his hands in the sink. He coughed and started humming again as he dried his hands.

The door opened, the sounds of the restaurant spilling through.

Overhead, Perry Como sang about how he’d met a man from Tennessee who was heading for Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie.

David let out a dry sob but didn’t let it go further.

He pushed himself up, leaning his head against the stall door, the metal cool against his heated skin.

Digger had scrolled through the call list and had called the last number dialed. It’d been the night before, Wednesday, and she’d called him to say that she was going to be a little late getting in.

“Fire on one of the tracks,” she’d muttered. “Station is full. We’re gonna be packed like sardines in here.”

“Fire?” he’d said, a little startled.

“Way farther down the line, you old worrywart,” she’d said with a laugh. “Making everything run slower. Just wanted to let you know because of how you get.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. Love you!” And she’d disconnected the call.

She’d been an hour late, but she’d gotten home.

That was the last phone call she’d made.

David opened the stall door.

Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays/cause no matter how far away you roam….

He stood in front of the sink, watching himself in the mirror.

He looked tired. He was pale. He looked… faded. Like he was the copy of a copy. All the pieces were there and they made a full picture, but it was blurred and somehow less.

He turned the faucet and splashed water on his face. He cupped his hands, letting them fill, then drinking from it, swishing the water around before spitting back in the sink, trying to get rid of that acidic taste.

It’d have to do.

He took the mouthwash, served in a little plastic cup. It burned a little as he swished it around. He spat it out and then crunched on a mint. It was better. He felt better.

He went back out.

Phillip watched him as he approached, brow furrowed, a little frown on his face.

“All right?” he asked.

David nodded, sitting back down in his seat. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Your swordfish is getting cold.”