Standing up, he smoothes down the front of his silk shirt. Those draconic wrinkles fade and vanish under his firm pressure, against the skin and body hairs, the fat and muscle, the ribs, and the goopity-goop inside.

With a smile that says he’s coming back, he leaves the disk of a table for the safer, more appealing comforts of the public restroom. His powerful legs carry him across the smoky, dimly lit room, around calmly smoldering hipsters, the gentle cummerbund-wearing collegiate, and dull, droll servers. He vanishes into the door, crudely marked ‘mail,’ releasing the combined smells of hash, cigarettes, urine, and fecal matter into the already fetid room.

Lights grow darker, then lighter as the night breaks to day. People file out, a few in groups of three or more, but the majority in pairs, fingers entwined or probing more doubtful depths. Coffees grow cold, then frigid, while beers rot and turn a rusty shade of dun. A surprising amount of garbage is left in the wake of the customers: an orange peel in a chipped martini glass, several torn and stained stockings, all piled on top of each other, a rag doll with a sausage stuffed in its mouth, and a neon pink sign reading something in Russian.

Its about this time he leaves the bathroom, a stumbling, filthy flicker of a man. There was once sincerity behind his eyes, a warm caring for the other, now replaced with laughter and recklessness. The dragons are rampant across his chest, and make him look creased, withered, older. As he gets closer, the smell of garbage and perfumes shoves its way through the omnipresent odorous cloud in the joint. A light print of a pair of gossamer lips makes a stitch from his cheek, down his neck, and descending into his shirt.

He smiles, oblivious to the time, the feelings, the emptiness. He can only look expectantly, awaiting a silent car ride back to his loft, where the clock is always on sleepy time.

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