Pistachio Shells in the Urinal

I’m inside the men’s restroom at Stearns. The city fixed the lights inside so everything was now visible. The mortar between the whitewashed bricks. The bright tile, the green accents, all dealing with the smell of piss from men and boys who don’t hydrate enough. Now I can spot the grading on the floor, where the piss dips and channels. I’m wearing my oldest pair of sneakers, and I decided to step tippy toe between the piss streams. I look inside the stainless steel urinal, shaped like a trough for tiny ponies, and I find pistachio shells.