In Haste by Clive Gill

My family and I sat in the futuristic Vespertine restaurant in Los Angeles on a Sunday evening. We dined beneath a twenty-six-foot hanging art piece called The Table. I savored delicious buttery ahi from Hawaii and a salad of lupins, wisteria and black locust, all grown in the restaurant garden.

After dinner, a spasm twisted in my abdomen. “Restroom,” I groaned.

My wife of sixty years and our two sons simply nodded.

My poor eyesight and low stamina compelled me to walk slowly. However, my gastrointestinal system urged me to hurry. As I approached the gentlemen’s restroom, I noticed a man wearing a navy jacket similar to mine, heading toward me from the opposite direction. He walked cautiously and looked familiar.

I gestured for him to go first.

The man mimicked me.

Who is that stooped man? He looks so much older than me.

I repeated my gesture, insisting that he go ahead, while I struggled to control my urgency.

He copied my movements precisely. Confused and irritated, I squinted at his deeply creased face in the dim lighting.

I’ve been struggling to recognize faces lately. I shouldn’t have had wine with dinner.

I scratched my head. He did the same in perfect sync, and it caused me discomfort.

I stared at him, then throwing back my head, I laughed.

In the long, angular mirrors on the walls, I wasn’t seeing a stranger. I was seeing my stooped reflection.