3The wave of nausea overcame Gordon shortly after the wait staff departed. Thanks to a sharp headache and a disoriented sense of direction, it took him a full two minutes to find the bathroom.
The door was mercifully unlocked. He pushed it open using his dizzy momentum and slammed it shut, tripping against the sink and stumbling over to the toilet like a stowaway finding his sea legs. Kneeling down on the wet tile, he vomited ferociously, retching and heaving, the digestive soup pounding against his throat until he coughed from sheer lack of oxygen. Even when his stomach ran out of ammo, the sour taste persisted; he choked on the acidity of his saliva, expelling it from his throat in swinging beads of drool.
When the sickness finally subsided, Gordon used the toilet seat to hoist himself up off the floor. He made his way over to the sink and looked into the mirror, breathing heavily. His face was shiny with sweat and colored like patchwork, beet red in some spots and pale yellow in others. Sticky residue lined his lips.
He ran the faucet and sloshed cold water on his cheeks and forehead, drying himself off with paper towels. Looking into the mirror again, he stared into the terrified brown eyes of the man in the reflection and fixed his hair. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…