Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

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Days later, despite each of us having a cold, Phil and I found ourselves together in the teacher's lounge on break. We hadn't really spoken much since the incident, taking the outcome as a sign from above that we needed to change our relationship; to what we still didn't know. We had turned on the staff TV and caught an update about the explosion from the local news outlet. Amazingly, no one had been hurt in the blast. The Fire Marshall believed that the fire started on the main floor in a janitor's closet and was, therefore, deemed an accident. The restaurant was fully insured and repairs would begin immediately.

Video footage from the news report showed the toilet from the upper-floor Ladies' Room perched on the edge of the roof. The blast had catapulted it through the ceiling where it had landed squarely on the ledge. This miracle of flight, that it had remained in one porcelain piece despite its rocketed journey, had become a beacon of hope for the downtrodden over that Christmas season. The decision was made, by the restaurant owner and town council alike, to keep the toilet- properly secured, of course- perched on the roof ledge for all to see as a reminder of life's possibilities. Interestingly enough, the town pigeon population agreed and continued to use it frequently in the way nature intended: as a toilet.

Phil and I looked at each other in utter amazement as the news segment ended.

With a nasally voice, I said, "I am never smoking again!"

Phil, also nasally, agreed. "Me neither!"