I expose myself to the porcelain. To my satisfaction, it doesn’t spare me a second glance; and so it is with but a single awkward nod to the stranger I pass that I walk out, damp yet clean hands held away from my pants as is my wont. It would not do to show moisture in my fabrics, the child inside me advises, for otherwise you’ll have tacitly admitted to wetting yourself.

    A lobby stretches before me, colorful patterns of carpet tracing faux stratagems for me to do battle with the crowds already in play; only a few notice I’ve added my efforts to the struggle. Their gaze slips away quickly; they’ve dismissed me as the obvious amateur I am.
    A firm shrug settles my jacket around my shoulders more completely and I stride forth, head down, with apparent purpose.

    Later: Aimless I, casting about for ideas. Aimless eyes find none for the moment. The thin plastic straps suspend my few purchases above the floor in a hammock of polyvinyl and cut into my hand uncomfortably. Fingers, you still there? Good. Let’s make the most of this.

    I move to pass by a door, which opens to admit the arguing couple with their dirty faced child, who stomps the snow off her pretty little boots. The eyes of the child meet mine and I find kindred sentiment in our shared annoyance and low-level suffering. I nod, and her little eyes grow wide. She darts a glance up at mom, who notices neither me nor her child in favor of debating the father’s evident lack of parking prowess.

    At that moment I miss my wife and daughter; all together we make the mirror opposite of this bickering duo and this quiet, resigned waif.
At that moment I decide I am done Christmas shopping, done with the aggravation and stress and the world’s insistence on playing Nat King Cole decades after he lost all relevance. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow? Shush, dead man.

    I brush rudely past the little family, ignoring the father’s startled protest, and I charge into the relative freedom of the cold, gray parkinglot. Relatively free except for the mandatory tip for the mandatory valet man. Get my car, I’m going home.