The Splash




Alan Jason Robert-Allen was a simple man. He woke up via alarm clock, was scared to put his feet on the cold floor, tied his tie, drank his shitty coffee, and took the train to work. It doesn’t matter what he did, because he didn’t care enough himself. He did it because it was the thing to do; it got him to the weekend, to the beer with his friends, the vomit at 2am, and on good nights, the broad in the cheap heels. His age was starting to pass him by but not quite enough where he needed to worry. His looks were still there but waning, more due to the lack of ambition than age. His home was also simple, but home. He went out of the country once, but Canada could hardly be called an accomplishment. 


On one particular morning, after he finished his bland coffee and store-brand fruit rings, Alan stood pressed against the door on the cramped train, forced to look out and see the world. The bright morning light reflected off the passing windows and shot into his eyes as though there were a machine gun firing rays of sun. He soon got a headache, but with someone else’s balls pressed against his butt cheeks, there wasn’t much he could do; even when he closed his eyes the flashing light was there. So he stared, burned his retinas, and caught the beautiful woman dressing in front of her window as if she were deaf and blind to the loud public transportation that careened by just twenty feet away. 


That would have been an immediate boner if it weren’t for his junk being squashed against the cold metal door. 


That day at work, Alan sat at his desk unable to concentrate on whatever the fuck it was he did. There were charts in front of him? A webinar that needed to be set up? Some emails needed to be answered. But the light teal bra with mismatched panties flashed in front of him. A single bullet in the barrel of the gun had caught him right between the eyes. It wasn’t even a case of easy arousal that kept him from his work, but the interruption from his normal, habitual life. It was that splash of teal on the grey canvas that stretched from his eighth birthday up to at least the strip club he’d be inhabiting this Friday from 11pm to 5am. It had awoken the reality of his sad, pathetic situation, so much so, that he ran to the bathroom to vomit. 

As Alan Jason Robert-Allen bowed before the porcelain goddess and emptied the weak coffee and stale fruit rings into the crisp white bowl routinely maintained by the skyscraper’s cleaning crew, his coworkers came and went. Some stopped out of genuine concern, some stopped to save face. Once finished, Alan decided to do his morning constitutional, to save him the walk back and forth between bathroom and cubical. It was usually a fifteen minute affair, complete with games on his phone and reading his dailies. Today, all he thought of was the splash of teal.


Today, it took longer. 


Finally, with a gentle push, he felt the release and the loss of a couple pounds. 




Jumping through a stall door was never a plan in the fight-or-flight response, but Alan had never expected to make the decision while sitting on the throne. He landed outside the stall, pants down, flaccid penis out, eyes bulging. A couple gentlemen in suits, dicks in hands, turned from their urinals and stared. Alan stared back, wondering why they were giving him the raised eyebrow. After several longs moments, long after eye contact should have ended, realizing he still had to wipe, Alan scooted back into the stall, pretty sure he left a trail on the floor behind him. 

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