Achilles

“I have to pee.”

“You’re almost home.”

He could feel his shoe slicing into his heel. He never wore those shoes with the intention of walking much distance, yet he always did walk in them, and sometimes run. Every step was a garrote flossing through his foot.

“Are you staying over?” she asked.

They walked together somehow. No one was around as they cut through the park square.

“I wonder if the public washrooms are open. Are you staying over? You don’t have to.”

“I said I would.”

“But you don’t have to.” She pulled at the door, a frame of steel and glass. The door didn’t open. “I can’t hold it.”

She’d had three or four drinks during the afterparty, and she never went during the event. He had a couple as well, but his nervousness speaking at the party kept him from wanting to put anything down, and after he was too sour to drink much. He had a formidable bladder, anyhow.

“Go. No one’s around. I’ll stand in front of you.”

Between him and the doors, she squatted. He faced the square. It was dark and no one was around. He could hear a sharp spray against pavement and he always thought women pissed gently but had no basis for such an assumption, or at least none  he felt like analyzing.

“Okay let’s go back. Are you coming?”

They talked for a while.

“I can’t tell if you’re angry,” she said.

“Me neither.”

It felt like everyone had secrets, that everyone was laughing at him.

“You can stay over if you want.”

He shouldn’t have, and he shouldn’t have wanted to. The outcome was always the same. Yes it was.

He tried to hide his limp.

 

 


 

 

Day 264’s three random writing prompt categories were, “A pissing match,” “Town square,” and, “A silent argument.”

Maybe this is familiar.

– H.

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