Alone again naturally in Mocha Daze and three cappuccinos later, I looked through the books for the fourth time and discovered the same thing-- Mocha Daze was in the red, a deep blood crimson actually. I could literally see the blood splatter and drip from the dark brown bound accounting book. I closed it and thought of calling Mike when I got as far as dialing the first five numbers and then hung up. I was too wired and talking on the phone would be as frustrating as an IRS audit so I grabbed my brushes and paints, which I now always kept close at hand, and headed for the toilet.

The men’s room at Mocha Daze has two stalls and two urinals opposite each other. Along one long wall are three sinks with rectangular mirrors above them. Hillary had done little with the other three walls so I decided to give it a shot. I painted the body of a Greek God lying above the urinals and atop the clouds of Mt. Olympus. His body was muscular and tight and his hair long and curly. Pulsing brown eyes would stare at the gentlemen peeing, staring directly at him. While some would enjoy peeing into the clouds, as I would, I knew there would be others who would rush for the stalls to avoid the aggressive Greek’s stare. And yet there are even other men who would take on the stare-down if only for the sake of the challenge. They would stand straight, pushing their pelvises forward and pee gallantly and without uncertainty.

When I stood back to review my mural, I saw whom I had actually painted. Perhaps the body was unmistakably the Greek perfection of immortal flesh, but the face was undeniably the American version of flawed imperfection. It was Harvey. I stared for awhile thinking if I were to paint anyone, it should have been Paul because he’s been driving my libido. Why then would it be Harvey who subliminally left my head falling for my hands and leaving his imprint on the Mocha Daze men’s room wall?

Just then I heard the front door squeak open and swing a few times before falling still. With my brush still in my hand, I went to greet my customer. When I got out to the shop floor, I found it was only Mike making himself a cappuccino. He retorted, “Nothing like a good cup.”

“Nothing like a good three cups.”

“Painting?”

“Touching up the bathroom.”

“You get your paycheck?”

“Yeah, but Mike I got to talk to you. The coffee shop ain’t making it. Nobody’s coming back, which I think is on account of Hillary dying. Customers loved her and don’t want any part of dying.”

“It’ll pass.”

“Honest, I don’t know. Maybe, but it can’t hold out that long.”

“Great, just another bunch of crap to add to my list.” Mike tore open a few sugars and dumped them in to his foaming coffee. I wanted to ask what else, but I stayed quiet as the bathroom painting surged through my brain.

Mike stirred his coffee, dissolving his sugar. “Greg, I got to ask you something.”

“Sure. What?”

“It’s more like tell something. I’ve got to tell someone. I’ve been having dreams.”

“’Bout Hillary?”

“No. Ironically enough…about Steve. And I must confess I think of him consciously also. I don’t know, maybe it’s the Hillary thing. She asked me to take care of him. Maybe I’m just confusing the issues and besides, he can’t stand me, so I suppose it’s wasteful attraction.”

“No such thing.”

“I haven’t really felt this way in a long time, but I feel like I’m supposed to be with him. Like it’s in the cards, like someone else is pulling the strings. Sounds juvenile, doesn’t it?”

“I mean, isn’t that what we’re all looking for? The feeling that loving someone is inevitable.”

“That’s what it’s like,” he said. “My feelings for him are inevitable.”

“Mike, my life is a mess. I have no career, no intimacy, no love, but I know one thing and I know it through my painting. At least I can do it with my painting, but with my life it’s another story.”

“What’s that?”

“Follow your heart, Mike. In the end it’s all you got.”