Somewhere between the cacophony of the crowd and the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, reality melted away in the dingy bathroom. Something scuttled across the broken, lime-green tile; Peter decided not to look. Eyes front and jaw set firm he made his own shuffling course to the nearest stall, a dark space full of foul smells and foul language scrawled across its walls and across two languages.
The breath in his nose was a rushing torrent, the blood in his veins a burning flood. With impudent fist he struck the wall, only to be rebuffed by a scolding voice from the other side, something croaked out in guttural Spanish. His bladder quickly relieved but his soul far from it, he remained in the stall, head swimming in and out of full awareness.
In the end he barely recognized his own voice, “Not again. Not tonight. Not every stupid weekend. Who says I have to be the sidekick? Who says I have to be the quiet guy? Huh, who says, dammit?!”
His stall neighbor gave a weak query, “Que?”