Putting on Its Face
The kohl-eyed girl comes out of the bathroom alone, looking refreshed. I could’ve sworn she went in with a friend though. Everyone shambles down the cramped hallway. Fourth in line now. It’s midnight and I need to pee, even more than I need to find Jesse. I need to pee so bad I might shove through the crowded, bouncing living room, push out onto the concrete balcony thirty stories over High Park to traumatize the smokers by spraying into the windswept night.
I refuse to lose my spot, despite more inane chatter from the handlebar mustache guy in front of me, who started our conversation bragging about building a treehouse with his son by designing everything on the iPad “together” and outsourcing the actual labor to subcontractors hired off some app.
“Couple years ago,” Handlebar continues, “I stopped telling my wife about how I feel altogether.”
Monotone, I ask how that’s going for him while scanning for my only friend in Toronto: bubbly Jesse, my social life preserver. I came to this grad school shindig hoping to spill my own feelings about her, once I got drunk enough, but—
“She never even noticed!” Handlebar roars, seemingly delighted. The bathroom door opens, closes. We shuffle forward. Handlebar regales me with investment tips. I bounce up and down. Jesse is boisterously flipping cups somewhere, probably the kitchen. Three people away.
Glass breaks and everyone ooooohs. A sour-looking lady cuts the line, saying something about fixing her face. I groan, holding my crotch. Handlebar asks if I own GameStop shares, spraying himself with foul cologne. I sneeze and shake my head. Slipping past us, the kohl-eyed girl says in a sibilant voice that I sneeze like a kitten.
Second in line. Jesse weaves through the hallway, enthusiastically wasted. I reach for her elbow. “Oh hey! Are you thinking we should hit the subway soon?”
But she’s grinning up at Handlebar for some reason, touching his shoulder. I’m basically invisible, blending into the wine-splattered paint. The door opens, Handlebar is next, and Jesse stumbles outside to bum a smoke. Problematic and puzzling.
Even worse: as Handlebar swaggers into the bathroom, the kohl-eyed girl sweeps in too. “What a treat,” he exclaims. The door slams shut.
This party is decaying, falling apart. I just want to pee, find Jesse, and leave. Squelching sounds from the bathroom. A tinniness in the air. Music cuts out abruptly as the speaker dies. Where’s my phone?
Handlebar emerges alone, mustache strangely askew. “See you, kittens,” he hisses, tottering headfirst down the hallway.
My blood is frozen but my bladder drags me to the stained toilet, where rusty streaks rim the bathtub. I pull back the shower curtain to reveal emulsified bones and gory strips of flesh circling the drain. One shred is smeared with kohl. I stand gaping for I don’t know how long until I’m returned to grim reality by insistent knocking on the door.
I push past indignant faces, rush through the dregs of the party. Out on the balcony, two smokers remain. Not Jesse. But down on the street I can see her. She’s walking arm-in-arm with Handlebar.
“Hey, man,” says one of the smokers. “You pissed your pants.”
© 2025 Chris Clemens
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. Nominated for Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net, his stories and poems appear in Radon Journal, Night Shades Magazine, Dreams & Nightmares, Strange Horizons, Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, and elsewhere.