The clown in the bathroom wouldn’t stop crying.
It was quite annoying really.
I didn’t have to use the toilet, I went in to wash my hands. His sorrow made it awkward.
He filled the tiny, tiled room with echoing whimpers and remorse.
“Everything okay?” I felt forced to ask.
“My girlfriend,” he blubbered. Tears ran down his cheeks, causing slight rivers in his white make-up. “She died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Elephant sat on her.”
I nodded. “It happens.”
“Splat!” he sobbed.
“Splat,” I agreed and went back to the restaurant’s dining room.
There are worse problems than dirty hands.