I'd drunk five 20-ounce bottles of water throughout the day and I had to go. I'd been holding it, weighing the need to release my forty-plus year old bladder against the drama of wrestling with the gravity-defying device used to smooth the bumpy parts. I finally decided it wouldn't be worth the embarrassment for me to wait any longer, so I quietly excused myself from the group buzzing around my author friend.
I was careful to hear from the inside of a closed stall door, as there have been many a juicy morsel uttered in the close confines of the ladies room. Feet on the seat could sometimes position you to be privy to the best confessions. I hadn't gained that knowledge on purpose, that was just how I'd been taught to use a public restroom. Now, these knees wouldn't be capable of that even if it was something I wanted.
I hear an employee of the establishment was advising a visitor that the dispenser had run out of soap, and another employee was coming to replace it. She was kindly implying that if the woman waited a moment, she could wash her hands properly.
"That's okay. Rubbing your fingers together works just as good." The door opened and closed.
Say what ni? I know better than that. She better wash her nasty hands. Those were the thoughts cycling through my head as I twisted and writhed to pull up my girdle.
Maybe it was possible I just hadn't heard the water. Surely, this woman at least rubbed her fingers together underneath it.
I left the stall and walked to the sink where the employee stood alone. She turned her head, adorned with brightly colored hair, toward me. We exchanged a look, then simultaneously bursted into laughter. She remarked that she'd had to keep her face together because she was at work. I praised her for her professionalism.