Cricket Snares
Sebastian pressed his ear lightly against the stinging coolness of the stall door, clenching his eyelids together tightly as to squash the imagery of a thousand grimy fingerprints caressing his exposed lobes. He had slipped into the dingy restaurant bathroom nearly a half hour ago, mere moments after crumpling the thin sheet of paper sputtered from a barely-functioning receipt machine to record his unpaid break. “Unpaid”, of course, was the first word on the paper, inked in a lifeless yet subtly upbeat font which mocked the 19-year-old instantly after being momentarily released from his duties. He now realized it had been the unbearable horridness of the font which prompted his subconscious daily ritual of crumpling the paper, and not the stiff, low quality of the paper itself, which he had thought before.
