an old scar.

“No, I actually – I’ve got to get back to work. John break has expired,” Alex dismissed, twisting casually away from the slender, freckled hand that dangled from his shoulder. “And you should probably get back to it, too.” He cast a meaningful look at her uniform. In spite of himself, his eyes softened, though his final sentiments held weight heavier than their few words: “Don’t let our receptionist catch you coming in here again.” 

When he cast off her touch, she had to stifle a cringe. A million statements cropped up in her mind, a dozen different choices of pitch. 

1.) I’m sorry. I was an idiot--you’re the one who makes me me, so can’t you forgive me ?  2.) I need you.  3.) You were my best friend. At least have a cup of tea with me. 4.) Can’t you see I’m a mess without you ? Look at my fucking coveralls !! I tow cars and serve greasy food for a living now. Help me.  5.) I still love you. 

Instead, Evelyn merely smiled, her hand cupping to wave. “You’re right. Duty calls.” 

With a furtive look, Alex assessed her clothing; coveralls, the emblem for a tow company emblazoned on the breast. Last he had know, she was attending University – he’d certainly missed out on some critical developments. A cold shiver spread his spine when she smiled, and his hands were tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides. After two years of pining, endlessly imagining her face within his mind, it surprised him that his reaction, rather than lovesickness, was fury. Fuck you, he thought with venom. “What are you doing here, Evelyn?” Alex said instead, his voice rougher than was his custom. “Besides using our restroom.” 

As the door opened and a sliver of light escaped, Alex steeled himself to charge past the individual, perhaps bestowing upon them a piece of his mind. Instead, he was confronted with a ghost – a memory, pushed into the recesses of his mind out of necessity. Evelyn fucking Connor. What in cripes was he supposed to say to her? For an eternity of a moment, he simply looked at her blankly, every shred of recognition wiped from his features. Then, with calculation, he spoke. “John’s for patrons and employees,” he relayed sternly, turning promptly on his heel and taking several bounding strides down the hall. No, no. Decisively, his steps halted, and he took his time in rotating to face her again (all the while cursing himself). When he did, his own visage was drawn and creased with strain. “Sorry, shite. Hi, Eva.” 

Evelyn watched silently as he began to walk away from her, not blaming him in the slightest. After all, what she had done was cruel. Her eyes moved to his leg, remembering that she--his best friend beyond girlfriend--had left him when he most needed her. How could she have done that? She didn’t know who that Evelyn was. The only time she knew who she was was when she was with him, which was her whole life, and now she was entirely lost, a university dropout working two jobs. && here he was, having succeeded. As he turned back around, she froze, and when he said her name, she thawed again, though stunned from hearing his voice. Quickly, she beamed. “You’re working here, now, then ? Congratulations.” She winked. “Though I never had a doubt you’d do it.” 

Alex writhed in his shoes as he waited outside the bathroom. He could have just as easily run upstairs, to the tiny, cramped john between the mailboxes and the storage closet. He could have just as easily squatted on the miniature, cracked plastic seat, stretching his lean legs so that his feet touched the door. After nine hours of pouring over diagrams, though, and two of collecting production designer complaints, he felt the need to treat himself. He wanted the loveseat, the Dyson air dryer, the spacious leg room – he needed it. With another knock, he became indignant. “The restroom is for attendees of productions and employees only.” 

That was it. Her patience had all but evaporated when he knocked the second time. He sounded like a fellow Irishman, through the thick door, and it was her duty as a Jackeen to teach a fellow how to relax. She thrust open the door with every intentional of removing the rod from his arse. “Bloody ..!! Mate, you need to learn some -----” Ev’s words clipped off abruptly. She locked hues with familiar green ones. Suddenly, she was uncharacteristically embarrassed. When she spoke, her voice was a hushed whisper. “Alex.”

“One minute, please. It’s a public Jack, hold your horses,” Evelyn zipped her coveralls, mumbling in response to the knock at the door. Hurriedly, her eyes darted around to locate a paper towel dispenser, but instead she found a fancy hand-dryer. The air shot at her palms like pressurized blades, drying it quickly. Who knew a theatre bathroom would be so lavish. “I should tow cars around here more often,” she grumbled as she took a furtive look back at the crimson loveseat and assortment of magazines.  

“Merely talk. Let’s play.” 

“Prepare to meet your match,” Evelyn smirked whilst eying the board, thinking about what her first move would be. She knew how to swindle, but could she play straight? She’d find out. 

“I have been alerted to the existence of a Wikipedia-recognized game by the name of strip chess. As that would suggest, it employs the rules of chess, but with the added caveat that one must remove their clothing. — To the point, I want to play.”

“You want to see me knickers? I’ll warn you, I’m no gobdaw at chess. Don’t underestimate a Northside Dubliner.” 

I mean I know that’s how I make mine.

Y’got some prime customers over there, then. If you ever get a bloke who prefers a girl in full coveralls and dirt, send ‘em my way. 

Gorgeous. You’re a dead feek, alright.

What’s a chancer?

Someone with a lot of nerve, like these mogs here. -- Oi, you boys best be payin’!

Why, you a prostitute?

Yeah, tow truck driver by day and lady of the night when the sun sets. Usually the kinky bastards like me to leave the coveralls on. The dirt n’ shite gets ‘em off. 

There you go! Although, I wouldn’t say cursing your tits is really the most effective plan. Try showing them off a bit and using them to your advantage to get them to pay.

Not exactly me style. -- Looks like they’re gawkin’ at you, now, too. I ‘spose they reckon we should be flattered they think our ass and tits are dishy? 

Maybe, but don’t worry what they think. Just worry about yourself and you’ll be all good.

Aye, but if they don’t stop botherin’ me I’ll have to give ‘em a good prunin’. It’s the principle of the thing. 

Why pay for a service when they can get it for free? Tell them to fuck off and move on with your morning.

Some nerve, right? And the bloody dossers like to throw swears when they don’t get their way. Sometimes I curse the diddies under this uniform. -- Oi, fuck off!