Chapter 3: What Stops?

The man stepped into view like he owned it.

Harvey, the network director was in his fifties, but he wore his age like an insult to anyone who noticed. His suit hung loose over his wide belly, unbuttoned at the top, a cheap attempt at comfort dressed up as authority. The phone was wedged between his shoulder and ear, his hands already at his waistband.

He hadn't seen her.

Of course he hadn't.

"I mean, how the old bitch has managed to stay this long in the first place is a fucking mystery!"

His voice filled the men's room like gas filling a vacuum, immediate, thick and impossible to ignore. The urinal flushed before he spoke again, louder now, talking over whoever dared to respond on the other end.

"Oscar winner my ass! When was that? Back in the 30s for King Kong?!"

He laughed, grunted and shook himself off.

A zipper zipped. Metal on metal. The sound of dismissal.

"I don't give a fuck what we promised her. This is TV, not a charity! So find me somebody new. NOW."

Another flush, another insult. He hadn't washed his hands.

"Did you know that women's fertility starts to decrease from the age of twenty-five?"

The words hung in the air like an ancient curse dressed up as science.

He was already walking out.

"Yeah, I know… how old is Elisa?"

He chuckled as the automatic door began to swing shut behind him. His laughter was the last thing to go, trailing off, casual, toxic and amused, until it was cut off by the soft click of silence.

The bathroom remained still.

The white sinks. The rows of neon lights humming softly above them. The mirrored walls repeating each other infinitely — white on white on white.

Then, from inside the far stall: a flush.

The door opened slowly and Elisabeth stepped out.

She didn't move right away. She stood at the center of the sterile bathroom, framed by cold reflections of herself. Her face appeared over and over in the mirrors, forward and backward, smaller and smaller, like she had become her own echo.

She stared straight ahead.

Her face gave nothing away.

But she was listening. She had heard everything.

Her fluorescent leggings now seem ridiculously out of place. She walked very calmly towards a sink, washed her hands slowly and knowingly, her eyes focused on the water flowing out of the tap... then she stopped the water in one swift gesture.

She looked up slowly facing her reflection in the mirror...

---

The shrimp came apart in his hands with a wet, audible rip.

Shlack.

Harvey sat dead center, face gleaming under the restaurant's oily overhead lights. His thick fingers worked instinctively, pinching the pink bodies, snapping the heads with too much pleasure, flicking the greyish tails off to the side of his plate like old receipts.

He didn't pause to breathe between bites.

"...but it's like when you've got someone farting on screen," he said, laughing through his nose. "People love that."

The shrimp slid into his mouth with a slurp, half-chewed as he continued.

"I'd rather talk about Renoir, or Gauguin, or whatever the fuck... but c'est la vie. People are just... people. And I have to give people what they want."

Another slurp. Another shell cracking between his fingers.

"That's what keeps the shareholders happy."

The fly returned, landing again on the back of his neck, shiny with sweat. He barely noticed. His other hand rose lazily to bat it away.

"And let me tell you something," he added, chewing now with a kind of pride, "people always ask for something new."

He said it like it was sacred. The word hit the table with force.

"Renewal is inevitable. It's nature's way. You either renew—"

A splatter of shrimp pulp exploded from the corner of his mouth.

"—or you disappear."

He leaned back, the chair creaking slightly beneath his weight, eyes drifting to the waitress moving briskly between tables. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Her black apron rode high on her hips, her expression unreadable.

Harvey's appetite flared again, as if on cue.

"At fifty," he muttered, mostly to himself, "it stops."

He sucked at his fingers, loud and unashamed.

"That's not me saying so. That's biology."

He grinned at no one in particular.

And reached for another shrimp.

She had been sitting there the whole time while watching him and listening

Harvey didn't notice until she spoke.

"What stops?"

It was quiet. Almost gentle. But it cracked the space between them like ice underfoot.

Harvey looked up, startled mid-slurp, the tail of a shrimp dangling limp between his fingers.

"What?"

"What stops?" she repeated, eyes locked on his.

The question hung in the air, delicate and dangerous.

He blinked and stumbled. His mouth opened but words didn't follow. Instead, he made a vague, circular motion with his hand, a whirlpool of nothing.

"The... you know, the..."

Then, with a forced laugh, he waved it all away.

"Anyway! Lots of wonderful things await you afterwards." His tone lifted like a brochure. "You'll finally have time to enjoy your private life. Kids, they put a big smile on your face. You forget about everything else."

Elisabeth didn't blink.

"I don't have kids."

The words fell flat and final.

A flicker passed behind Harvey's eyes with confusion, maybe guilt, but mostly inconvenience. He checked his phone as if something urgent had just buzzed, then sprang to his feet like he'd been rescued.

"GEORGE!" he shouted, spotting a colleague across the room. And then, without missing a beat, to Elisabeth: "I've gotta run."

As he passed the young waitress again, he leaned in, muttering something that made her eyebrows twitch in annoyance. His voice rose at the far end of the restaurant.

"GEORGE! These ratings are insane! You're a fucking genius!"

And just like that, he was gone.

Elisabeth was left alone at the table, shrimp shells pushed to one side, her plate untouched.

In front of her, the wine glass trembled slightly from where Harvey had bumped the table. Something floated inside that looked dark and writhing.

A fly that was trapped.

Its tiny legs scraped uselessly at the curved crystal, wings soaked and twitching. It spun in circles, struggling to rise, sinking again into the sweet red swirl that held it captive.

Elisabeth stared at the fly, which twitched as if having an epileptic fit, its movements growing slower... and slower... until finally it was completely immobilized.
Dead and disgusting.

NOTE:

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