The Bathroom

It was while standing in the black and gold tiled bathroom, that Tommy Flanagan, Ex-Marine, Desert Storm veteran and all around tough guy, realized he was about to faint. Tommy braced himself against the marble countertop, oily hands sliding on the slick surface. His head hung low and he could feel the drops of perspiration forming on his forehead and soaking halfmoons beneath his armpits despite the air conditioned splendor around him. Behind him he could hear the scuff of footsteps as men entered stalls and, as the restroom door swung open briefly, the distant clink of silverware and muted hum of conversation from the dining area. Tommy concentrated, eyes closed, as he attempted to breathe.

What is this, what the fuck am I doing? Tommy's head drooped farther. Oh God please. Please. Tommys' heart skittered franticly and his head felt as if it were a balloon connected to his body by the slenderest of strings. Tommy couldnt feel his knees at all, though he supposed they were still there as he was still standing (as it were) instead of laying on the cool bathroom floor. Within, he felt completely hollow, save for the jittery, shuddering ball of electricity floating somewhere near the top of the fluttery void he used to call his stomach. Little jolts of shuddery panic twitched his rubbery muscles as he strained to balance on the clumsy blocks of wood encased in his leather shoes. The worst part of it all was that he couldnt breathe. He gulped desperately for air and the sound of his wheezing would have made him laugh if, holy shit, he didnt think he were about to cry.

"I can't, Oh God, I don't think I can do this," Tommy whispered to himself. "Oh GodGodGodGod, what was I thinking?" Even with his eyes shut, Tommy could feel the steps around him turning tentative. In his mind, Tommy could see the other men in the restroom walking a wide circle, giving him space. No one wanted to mess with a big man obviously having a bad day. Within, Tommy felt a scream rising up and strangled it as it tried to leap from his clenched jaw.

"Good God man, get a grip on yourself. Cowboy the fuck up," Tommy muttered severely to the back of his eyelids. He straightened, breathing quickly, arms floating away from his empty torso as he slapped them wetly against the huge mirror before him.

You're panicking. You're scared. This is fear. This is normal. Don't be scared, dont be scared dontbescareddontbescareddontbe "Ah fuck..." Tommy hunched over the sink, feeling his gorge rise, but the empty heave that whooped up from his gut left him face down on the cool porcelain of the sink. Fumbling weakly, blindly, Tommy flipped the faucet handle on and felt the cool relief of water running over his hair and ear. Tommy chuckled weakly, imagining what he must look like. His breathy laughter turned suspiciously hysterical before he finally managed to shut himself up.

"OK stop. Think. Be cool," Tommy prayed, finally, FINALLY managing to somehow make peace with the juddering emptiness inside him. "This is what you want. This is what you have always wanted. This is what you need more than anything else in this whole, good God, world."

Forcing himself up, Tommy opened his eyes to look squarely in the mirror. The poor, pale, reflection managed a tremulous smile.

"Be cool Goddamnit," Tommy pleaded, giving a wistful glance toward the last empty stall of the bathroom, thinking how sweet it would be if he could hide there for awhile for a minute, for forever, whichever comes later. Insides quaking, feeling hollow, twitchy, balancing precariously on damn wobbly legs, and Scared o God I'm scared, Tommy fumbled with one sweat gloved hand for the slender velvet box in his right front pocket as he marched determinedly for the bathroom door. Taking one last, deep, shuddering breath, Tommy Flanagan, Ex-Marine, Desert Storm veteran and all around tough guy ducked into the cool dimness of the restaurant to face the most beautiful woman in the whole of the good God world.