I am rolled over supine on the geometric tile. I am concentrating docilely on the question why U.S. restrooms always appear to us as infirmaries for public distress, the place to regain control. My head is cradled in a knelt Director's lap, which is soft, my face being swabbed with dusty-brown institutional paper towels he received from some hand out of the crowd overhead, staring with all the blankness I can summon into his jowls' small pocks, worst at the blurred jawline, of scarring from long-ago acne. Uncle Charles, a truly unparalleled slinger of ♥♥♥♥, is laying down an enfilade of same, trying to mollify men who seem way more in need of a good brow-mopping than I.