Freshen Up

He took the same booth as always, in the sunroom of the Wendy’s, still not remodeled over the years. It took him back to grandmother trips: French fries that tasted like salted waffles when dipped in chocolate soft serve.

His eyes monitored the bathroom, flicking up from his laptop plugged into the wall, loaded job listings to scroll through that he ignored. 

The lock clicked and a man that looked familiar exited. He closed the laptop, packed his things, and ran for the door. Inside, a quick rinse: washcloth under the arms, electric razor on the neck, dabs of face wash rationed for weeks, a brush of the teeth. Afterward he felt human, looking job-ready; the self-pity ran down the drain with the soap. 

The familiar man had taken his booth. He found another outlet and began to job hunt again. The cashier behind the register stared at him, but did not move to say anything or confront him.

No. 130

Drifter’s Log

June 28: 8am, 64°. Marine layer settled in overnight. Ring of sunlight barely visible in the clouds.

June 29: 1pm, 73°. Nestled on the sand beneath a palm. No breeze. A bead of sweat ran down my temple.

June 30: 9pm, 67°. Draped the blanket around my shoulders. A shiver across my body. Moved the car again.

July 2: 2am, 60°. Awakened to the sound of rain. Looking out the rear window: the arc of a sprinkler’s daughter. This will leave streaks in the dirt, I thought.

No. 113

Consolation

How sad, Spencer thought. Alone at the dive bar, quarter to midnight on a Tuesday. The lone bartender stood behind the counter, organizing the bottles, closing up for the night. Spencer needed a drink—his boss had died suddenly. The otherwise solid foundation of Spencer’s career began to crack like the ice atop a pond as Spring neared. 

The bartender’s phone began to ring. Spencer ignored it and nursed his drink, and the bartender kept cleaning behind the bar. Only the dull echo of the abandoned ring accompanied them.

No. 072