The tiles around the kid shaped orange juice are glassy like somebody polished them. You bend down, get your face real close ‘cause you can almost see your reflection in it and you’d kill to see somebody you know right now. Up close the stink of piss socks you up the nose.
Most days, he steers around me like it is a dance, or a children’s game; like we are playing Pretend the Floor is Lava. I am lava and sometimes he looks at me like my head might roll right off my body and bowl him down.