Phenomenology

She works in the coffee shop on the bottom floor of an office building rented by people who think themselves important, and who would be killed in any revolution, no matter the political affiliation. She feels like a dirty recycling bin, dragged out to the side of the road. 

Her brother was an anarchist. 

Walking across the street to a public restroom on a fifteen minute lunch break, she steps inside and lights a cigarette. It’s single occupancy and kept well enough, with glossy black tile installed to shoulder height and the remaining walls painted a pleasant shade. Lucent. Ecru. Something unobtrusive and good for finishing a crossword. Eggshell, maybe. 

The presence of it, of the public bathroom, seems more comforting than the cafe one she herself has recently, ruthlessly cleaned. Sometimes a homeless woman named Vanessa sleeps inside. That makes no difference. 

Unceremoniously, her hair is falling out. She stretches forward, stiff torsoed, hips pressed to sink, plucking at a hairline that’s slowly inching backwards like an army retreating. 

It’s malnutrition. Or lack of sleep. Or the new supplement, bought on a whim from a vaguely attractive young thing outside the cart return of the local co-op, that’s probably nothing but speed. 

Or maybe it’s just the air of self seriousness, hard fought to accumulate, that’s now become tiresome. Like a drooping eyeball, pushing at the edges of its socket. It covers everything, all three dry years spent faithfully married to neutral lipstick shades and professionally whitened teeth and kissing without tongue. To serving bad coffee. 

Her free hand worms around the bathroom wall, distracted, looking for the switch for the overhead fan. 

The lights go out. Full dark in the windowless room.

Of carved long forehead and sallow cheeks, her face is a reproach written in the cherry glow of the cigarette. Some memory of Bloody Mary comes floating back, tasting like saltwater taffy.

It’s been a long time, since she’s seen anyone she loves.