bathroom stall

He sat sobbing in the bathroom stall. It smelled, he could hear the water in the urinals next to him, he could hear the water sputtering through the pipes. The floor beneath his feet was sticky. Mucus was building up in his nose, his cheeks were sticky from the tears. His face was heavy, his heart was in his shoes, he felt lightheaded.

The door slammed open. He stopped crying. He sniffed the mucus in. He could hear unzipping of a zipper, could hear it get stuck, and then unzipped to the full, could hear the steady stream of piss, could imagine the drops falling on the floor. Did not hear the man washing his hands. The door slammed once more, squelching sounds as the shoes of the newcomer left the bathroom.

He resumed crying. His eyes hurt, he could imagine they were red and rimmed raw. Why him? How him? He had always been so careful. He was the one that followed all the rules.

The door creaked, he stopped. Used the knuckles of his fingers to wipe the corners of his eyes, the back of his palm to clean up his cheeks. His ears felt red and hot. His heart thumped so loud, he thought the person walking to the stall next to him could hear it. He felt it would stop from all the exertion. The sound of piss. It seemed to go on forever. He could see the tip of a polished black shoe peering out from the stall next to him. The sound sputtered and then stopped. This man washed his hands.

He had gotten the notification through email. Heart pounding, but not really too worried, he had opened it. The man left. He let out a wail, and then continued to sob. His brother, his father, they were slobs. They were careless. He had always thought if it came for anyone, it would be them. But it didn’t. He choked on his tears. And then gasped for breath. No, but it came for him.

He closed his eyes and winced. He made a grip and felt his nails dig into his skin. He closed tighter, hoping his palms would bleed. Through the tears, he opened his fist, and saw the white skin where his nails had been pushing. No blood. He let out a scream. Small, controlled. That was his life. Always controlled. Always appropriate. Always right. And yet, it had come for him.

The door opened again. He didn’t stop sobbing in time. He could hear the silence as the man stopped, could imagine his thoughts, probably wondering if it was worth it to come into this bathroom or go to the one about five minutes away, on another floor. The more time passed by, and the more he didn’t cry, the more the resolve of the newcomer strengthened. He could just ignore it, and they would both pretend nothing had happened. The man took a loose dump, almost like the sound of piss. But more solid. Just a little bit more. He really hoped the man would wash his hands. He did not. He sniffed and then walked out. Footsteps heavy.

He began to cry. Then he sighed. His heart felt lighter. This has helped. The impending doom and gloom was still in his head. But this has helped. He had cancer.