Henry's best day.

You start here and end there.

My mouse. My salad dressing. My photo. My best day.

In response to the

SUM FLUX

open call, I submit to you a glimpse of a man who doesn’t have it bad, but also doesn’t have it good, that is to say, he doesn’t do a lot of living. Not until this day. Henry’s best day.

The prompt was “Plumbing.” This story is best read aloud.

Read all of the official SUM FLUX volume 3 stories here.

Sean Thomas McDonnell is offline.

Henry looks down at his desk, wondering what the hell just happened. The container had been in his hand, then it was falling, and now there’s honey-mustard salad dressing all over his computer mouse.

His deskmate frowns. “Tough break.”

Henry takes out his phone, snaps a photo of his blunder, and posts it to his socials with a caption that reads, “Haute new tech.”

In the office kitchen, Holly and Heather discuss holidays and hairstyles.

The office is buzzing—lights, computers, gossip—but not the air conditioning unit; its typical rattle-buzz is now a pathetic warm sigh. The repair person will be in momentarily, the office is assured.

There’s small talk coming from every corner of the office—speculation about popular streaming shows, an upcoming offsite, hot weather—always with the weather.

Henry cleans off his mouse, looks at his bare salad, then tosses the salad into the compost bin in the office kitchen. His manager, Herb, sees this and says, “No good, huh?”

“What’s that?” replies Henry.

“You threw away your salad. Not feeling healthy today?”

“Oh, ha. No, it was bad.”

“Bummer, dude.”

“Yeah, totes bummer. That’s the gamble when you buy one of these pre-made deals, you know?”

Henry tries to refill his water bottle, but the filtered water dispenser isn’t working. Holly and Heather tell him there’s hemp milk in the fridge. They ask him if he’s seen the new episode. Henry hasn’t. They ask him if he watches the series. He doesn’t. They tell him he really should, he’s missing out. He tells them they are so right, then makes a beeline for the restroom, where—miraculously—the stall is available. He doesn’t have to go, but sometimes he likes to sit there and look at the poster directly across from the toilet. “GRATITUDE,” it reads. There’s a snow-covered mountain with a magnificent waterfall spilling over the side of it. He feels calm when he looks at the poster. Maybe he’ll go visit a waterfall someday. Maybe someday soon.

Someone’s standing outside the stall door. They’ve coughed a few times to make their presence known, and from the husk of the cough, Henry thinks it might be Hector from HR.

Every minute or so Hector pulls on the handle.

Henry doesn’t need to read the poster, he knows it by heart. “Appreciate those who have helped us get to where we are today. Have an attitude of gratitude.”

In the sky above the snowy mountain is a soaring bird. Henry wants to be the bird for ten seconds—just ten seconds—just to cool off. Just to breathe in the crisp air for ten goddamn seconds.

The door shakes. Hector sighs. Coughs. Rustles. Taps his phone. Taps his foot. Shifts his weight. Snorts while reading something on his phone. Coughs again.

Henry is sweating, drags his hands across his forehead, wipes the sweat on his bare knees.

Another person comes into the restroom.

“Hey,” the newcomer says. Possibly Heath; nasally voice, too quiet. Heath sings in an a cappella group on the weekends. Works in sales.

“What’s up,” says Hector.

The overhead lights are buzzing. Henry bites his lip and tastes pennies.

But then something wonderful happens: a third person arrives in the restroom, goes directly to the sink, and turns on the faucet. They turn it way up—full throttle—and the lovely sound of water covers up the coughing and the door jiggling and the buzzing and now the waterfall is gushing over the side with such force it makes Henry sit up straight and gasp!

Henry rubs his eyes, stands—doesn’t even pull up his pants—penguin-waddles up to the poster, and puts his face right up to it. He can smell the fresh water cracking against the rocks. And it’s moving—the water is moving!—and the mist is fresh and brisk on Henry’s cheeks and nose. He peels off his shirt, drops his bare ass to the cool tile floor, then pulls off his shoes, pants, and boxers.

He dives into the waterfall and—even before he feels the cold mountain air tickle his skin, even before his muscles tense divinely from the frigid water—he’s immediately overcome with satisfaction.

How refreshing—how good for the soul! He takes the water into his mouth, squirting it up into the air like a park-pond-cherub. He’s giddy, diving like an otter, twirling, flipping. Luxuriating in the splendor of this brumal baptism. It’s a new world, that of long experiences and short thoughts, and truth—yes! Above all, truth! A realness unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.

When Hector looks beneath the door, he sees Henry, naked, his face in the toilet bowl blowing bubbles. The cool air from the vent above is making the poster on the wall ripple.

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