"She had pantyhose drying on the towel rack. Just pantyhose with little wrinkly feet, out to dry. But she wasn't one of those crazy chicks with bras in the dishwasher. Thank God." He put down his drink. The square wooden table was glossed over, like his hair, like the two melting ice cubes, like his eyes. The man across from him said nothing. The cramped, dimly lit bar was humming, but then again, it wasn't; he realized that it was only the shower head wracking scalding jet streams against the bath floor, onto which he gingerly stepped. The hallucinations were starting again. "I'll stop being anorexic when you stop being bulimic, cinnamon gum makes you overheated." His small, thin body was soaking wet. His rosebud lips remained parted. "F*** you," he spat, but the water was clean.

            Eight hours later, Garcia lit a cigar, because they are oh so much more pretentious than cigarettes. Also, she hated that. The fox - that stone cold fox of a woman that he had been following around for months. She hated it, mostly because of her dad, whose lungs were rotting away that very moment. But who gives a damn about an old man's lungs? Not even the old man himself.

            "Let me tell you something about this girl." Garcia crossed to a mirror, cleared his throat, and continued with an atypical monologue session, literally, talking to himself. "This girl," he ground his teeth, flicking ashes onto the carpet, "will laugh. And then it will be over. She will speak to you in poems. She will daydream on your face. She will point out some tiny insignificant trait of yours, that even you didn't notice, and you will wonder if anyone has ever truly known you at all." He leaned out of a window and raspberried a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. Garcia didn't even know how to smoke a god damn cigar, and the tobacco was always getting caught in his teeth.

            And then Garcia punched the glass.

            He stared down at his mirror-hand, dark blood underneath the glass in his fist that threw his reflection back. He looked at it as if it was not his own.

            “Well,” he said. He proceeded to shake the glass out of his skin. He yanked one leg of a pair of sheer stockings over his head while ripping off the over and pulling over his injured hand, and then he ran screaming into an elevator in his nakedness.

            The elevator shot down without pause; Gar and his noise were absorbed by the bottomless elevator floor. In the main lobby he exited the elevator, still screaming, and ran across the black and white tiles towards the golden revolving doors of the front entrance. He was intercepted, however, by a staff member walking by who seized the foot of the stocking that stood up on the top of his head with such force that Garcia’s feet flew out from under him, and he landed sharply on his tailbone. Thus rendered unable to move, he could not protest much as a straight jacket was placed upon him once paramedics arrived shortly after. In a moment of clarity, Garcia spoke.

            “No, that was a garish thing to do, I must say,” and then the heavy metal doors of the ambulance slammed shut.