4
Dance Hall Days
They’ve replaced the air fresheners in the bathrooms with these fancier models that spit into the toilet bowl every time someone flushes. Make a poopy, instant flowers. Unfortunately, one has already malfunctioned and the entire underground bunker where my section of the dispatch center is located only gets air pumped in through vents. Vents with intake just down the wall from the bathroom. Which means the entire place reeks, compounding the headache already forming behind eyes baggy and tired from two hours of ragged pillow-free sleep on a lumpy, dog-smelling couch.
Les is at his usual spot in the lunchroom, newspapers from local municipalities organized so that one doesn’t touch another but all six take up the entire surface of a singular table. I’ve tried to tell hi
