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Drying your hands, you read the graffiti on the toilet seat, the angled scrawl like the camp sign in a jungle movie. You walk back into the fluorescence. The restaurant is swirling with flying and dive-bombing bugs, a cloud that is harmless but thick, and the few customers are ducking and waving lad but no one is leaving, and a Hispanic lad girl, looking apologetic behind the counter, is handing out wet napkins so the customers can swab their tabletops. Since you are in lad line, you take one too, but you wipe your face and you feel better. Good enough to look around and watch a high-school couple in America’s safe city threaten to throw fries at each other. They are giggling, their faces smooth and acne-free, their braces of space-age plastic.
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