I peeked into it and saw that it had a hole in the other wall too and could glimpse clothing of a guy in the far stall. He looked into the hole and our eyes met across the empty one. I didn’t know what to make of it until a third guy entered that center stall and shut the door. He took out his penis but didn’t pee, just stood there stroking it. Now I was a bit intrigued. The guy at the other stall stuck a finger through the hole and the man next to me turned and pushed his prick through, lowered his pants a bit and I knew he would be getting a blowjob! I returned outside, my wife asked if anyone was in there because she had to go too and the Womens was closed for the winter. The guy from the center stall came out and went away. In a sudden mischievous impulse I said I didn’t think so but the center stall was the only toilet that worked and told her to just go right into that stall and she’d be able to go. I would stand near the door for her. I assumed the two guys at the urinal had. Back in the car I was drawn and drove deeper and deeper into the dead zone. The single bulb was a golden sunrise in the pale morning and I went to it, pulling the car into the kerb by the door. At first glance the cafe was as deserted as the streets had been, but it was steamy warm, and the golden bulbs were life. The man behind the counter looked as if he had stood there for ever, brown, wrinkled and liver-spotted, his face was a guarded welcome for someone else who couldn’t or didn’t sleep. He sold me a cup of tea and slipped rounds of toast into a grill, I sat down. There was a paper on the red Formica table-top. The Brown man put the toast down next to it. The headlines shouted to anyone that cared to read about another murder, then in the next breath slammed the government about the way money was spent. I tried to read it as I ate the toast, the film of butter running down the slope onto my finger tips. I wiped my hands on a white paper napkin. The words on the pages made no.
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