There may be something to this subconscious training. Waltre thought as he almost blushed at the look a young woman gave him as he walked by her machine. The woman had given him the come on in such a way that it could not be mistaken for anything else.

He decided to go to the men's room on the idle side of the factory so he could have some privacy. It was empty. No one would walk that far so as to take a piss, he'd reasoned. He'd read somewhere that in the name of efficiency the mirrors should be removed from all men's bathrooms. A study had shown that the time men stay in the men's room was almost cut in half by simply removing the mirrors. It was decided that the women wouldn't put up with it, but the men who work in factories wouldn't have the nerve to complain because they pretend that only pansies and women worry about how they look.

He was glad that the efficiency experts hadn't got their way. He stood before the mirror so as to try to have a good, and honest, look at himself. No more squinting so as to try to make oneself look better, he'd decided.

He shook his head in dismay as he saw the reflection of a full head of white hair, the still dark and very bushy, almost wild, eyebrows, and the silly grey moustache that he didn't have the nerve to shave off due to not having much to call an upper lip.

I look like a fuckin old man! He thought.

What the hell do they see in me?

He sucked in his beer belly and turned sideways so as to see if he looked any better, but all he could see was an old man sucking in a beer belly.

Maybe it's my eyes, he reasoned. Women have a thing about eyes. He looked at his eyes and slowly shook his head. Nah it can't be that, he thought, as he saw the red rimmed poor things. He tried to look into his eyes, but he couldn't get past how tired they looked.

"You are fifty eight, and you look like your all that and some more." He said to his reflection.

Then he got very serious as he remembered that neither of his parents had got past sixty three, and then he felt very sad upon thinking of his eldest sister who had died at the age of sixty.

Bad genes, he thought, it's all in the genes, and mine give up the ghost at around the age of sixty. If a man got sentenced to death today, what with all the appeals and what not, he would have more life expectancy than I do. The only difference is that he knows he is doomed; ah but then again, so do I, he thought as he relaxed his shoulders and every other part of his body tee boot.

"Fuck it!" He said to his reflection.

As he was saying the words, the big fork lift driver walked in.

"Hello Waltre!" He said with a big smile.

Waltre smiled back out of sheer habit, and then he said:

'Fuck it all."

The big fork lift man motioned like he was pulling something down while imitating the sound of train tooting it's horn.

Whooo Whooooo!

"Why does the sound of a tooting train always sound so much sadder at night?" Waltre asked.

"It's because you wish you were on it." The fork lift driver replied with a laugh.

"Damn it, you are right again!" Waltre said in his usual jocular way, as he walked out of the men's room.

"Fuck it." He thought. Then he felt a surge of delight as he realized that he actually meant it.

"Fuck it all." He said as he walked back to the noisy side of the factory.

And I think I'll fuck her too." He thought as he tried to remember where the hell her machine was.