It was bright in there, fucking bright. The strip lighting and recently installed wall tiles conjured the sterile future of early 70s science fiction. This was that future and it was cold, fucking cold.
He studied the contrast of his tobacco stained fingers against the white. The room glowed like teeth between them. He shifted his weight and changed hands. He considered whether he really needed to be leaning like this. Possibly. He wasn't sure. He was unsteady. He considered whether it was wise to be putting his hand on the wall anyway. He couldn't remember doing so before. Other people did, he'd noticed that, but not him normally. The tiles were new but probably not clean. What really was? She'd asked him that years ago, seeing him wash them after any minor manual activity. She was right of course. The tiles looked pretty clean.
He considered the condition of his internal monologue. He'd been listening intently for several minutes now. He considered why it was so centred on the wall tiles and his hands and realised it was only continuing the conversation from which he'd just broken; a conversation founded on what shouldn't be said. Only a couple of them knew what shouldn't be said, or couldn't. The others prodded away, bemused and lughing nervously, unaware of the net that had fallen but aware they couldn't move.
He considered his analysing his internal monologue and found himself spiralling. He shook off and fasten his jeans, exiting without washing his hands.
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