I ate a fajita at the airport and sat at the counter, trying to put my head together. Eight...

I ate a fajita at the airport and sat at the counter, trying to put my head together.  Eight straight hours and the muscles in my back couldn’t unclench.  Everything hurt— my shoulders, my jaw.  Behind my eyes.  People were going back and forth, trying to get to their gates or their baggage or wherever.  In the men’s room I splashed my face, then took off my shirt.  I wiped down my neck and my pits with paper towels then changed into something clean.  On my phone were a string of texts, most of them from Jane, asking if I’d got in.  If I was allright.  On one of the texts she’d attached a picture of herself, naked from the waist up, cradling her midriff.  She had this look on her face like she was trying to be sexy but it looked wrong somehow.  Like something had happened between getting the idea and making her face.  Later that night, I was showing the picture to some guys I’d met at the bar.  They were older.  Post men or something.  They were asking me where I was from, what I was doing here so far from home, and somehow, I don’t know how, I started showing them this picture.  She’s a pretty girl, one of the guys said.  Tell me where you’re from again?  His buddies were laughing pretty good, looking at each other then looking at me.  They were saying all these things, about what they’d do if they were me, how’d they fix it with her so she’d be okay with all of them.  My face was burning, and they must’ve seen me getting heated.  I got up and real quick, one of them knocked me back onto my chair.  Easy, junior, he said.  You just got here.