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I had walked across the carpetted lobby and down a long marble corridor, passing glassed-in phonebooths and rows of tall potted plants, and staggered into the Men’s Room.
My eyes were stinging. Everything had grown blurry as I’d made my way through the lobby. I moved toward the sinks and the mirrors. I could no longer see my own hands, but in the brightness I sensed the expanse of tile and brushed metals and knew at once I was alone.
I was squinting I guess. I contracted every muscle in my face. As I did this a series of droplets came out of both eyes and stayed close to my cheeks, travelling down them, each droplet leaving a kind of track. Streaks I suppose. For a few brief moments I could see again. The tiles and the metals. And then again the room grew blurry.
It was then I heard a faucet running. Someone was there. A man was suggesting I was crying. Crying! I doubted this—told him I seriously doubted this. I slumped down onto my knees, holding my head in both hands. More droplets. My head felt just like a trophy, so I held it as such.
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