116 The Meadow She waits till I’m settled, slicing light across me. When the light goes, uncertainty deepens. Don’t know if she left or she’s somewhere behind. Can’t turn, not with the place empty. I stare at the blank screen, trying to place hollow music piped from the ceiling. It’s nothing, not even a tune, just electrical sounds. There’s no advertising. I don’t even care there used to be advertising. Weight on my bladder starts to itch. Cold outside and I’ve not the control I once had. Shift around and the sting gets kicking. Head for the restroom, gripping the end-row seats as I misjudge the stairs, same as she did. The concealed door, seen in low light only from its dirty scar and tumorous hinges. Behind, a sharp fall of concrete steps, a bare-rendered corridor lit from stark bulbs, sandbags along the grimy floor—a mine shaft or hidden route, tight with evasive action. Though there’s nothing to stop me, I’ve never seen in the women’s toilet. I presume it’s old and cramped as the men’s. A splashed, grimy vinegar hole specked with husks of insects like failed mutations. The dry urinals frosted with sand. A small mirror nailed over the basin. Stare down to avoid it. The taps have porcelain inlays, chiseled Cold and Hot, their crowns gummed with lime. I have little nightmares of getting locked in, shrinking in on myself as the lights fail and go cold. I’ve never gone where the corridor leads beyond the toilets. I’m sure it’s no way out. Flick around the hot tap and the pipes retch in their sleep. Gray water flows through the hills in vaulted rivers, fenced with gates and sluices, patrolled by men with scars and practical weapons. Gets channeled through culverts that—on still nights—rasp and yaw below ground. We treat water precious. When summer burns thick, our withered skin marks our civic prudence. We have cold and heat, methane ice. Hardly rain. Twist the hot till it locks its spindle. Flabby, tepid water drizzles down. Stain my fingers in the flow. Gets colder as the
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