by Noir, Roxie
At last, a woman comes out of the bathroom. She doesn’t seem to have a newborn with her. I try not to glare as the next person in line enters, and now I’m only five people away.
In heels. Legs crossed, now a little tighter. Ghost town of a men’s room across the hallway. The girl next to me sighs and mutters “Come on,” under her breath.
And I make a slightly-drunk snap decision.
I push myself off the wall where I was leaning. I walk across the hall to the men’s room, head held high, shoulders back, determination in every step.
But still, in front of the men’s room, I pause for half a second, a shudder working its way down my spine as every molecule in my body screams no! No! Wrong door!
“Do it!” someone shouts behind me.
It’s all the encouragement I need, and I push the door open, holding my breath.
I step into the men’s room.
And then I whisper, “What the hell?”
It has a urinal and a stall. Twice as many peeing opportunities for men, while across the way, the women’s has only a toilet. No wonder they’re breezing in and out of here while we’re stuck staring at concrete walls in uncomfortable shoes.
Sometimes, it’s hard not to hate men.
But I really have to pee, so I put my bathroom grievances aside, enter the stall, and get down to business.
Just as I flush, the bathroom door opens.
Footsteps enter.
I freeze. My heart leaps into my throat, and for a long moment, I stare blankly at the beige metal wall because I have no idea what to do. I didn’t think this far ahead. I didn’t think ahead at all, thanks to the Smurf’s Vacation.
It didn’t even occur to me that I might get caught.
So I do nothing. I stand stock-still in the bathroom stall, staring wide-eyed at the back of the metal door, and hold my breath.
The footsteps enter. They come right up to the stall, then pause.
He can’t be more than a foot away from me.
My palms start sweating, all my alcohol-induced bravado gone.
What if it’s a cop? I think.
Can I get arrested for this?
I think I can get arrested for this. I’ve never been arrested before. They’ll send me to jail, and I can’t go to jail, I can’t handle those social dynamics —
I, Thalia Lopez, am many things.
A daughter. A sister. A college senior. A Madison Scholar.
I am not a rule breaker.
I’m a rule follower, neatly and to the letter. I love toeing a good line. I love staying within boundaries. I delight in abiding by the law, and right now, I wish with every ounce of my being that I were outside, in the hallway, standing in heels with a full bladder.
Finally, the steps move again. A moment later, there’s the sound of a urinal being used, then flushed. The water in the sink goes on. Paper towels crinkle.
At last, the bathroom door opens and swings shut.
I exhale and, without thinking, lean my forehead against the cool metal door.
Then I remember where I am and jerk upright again, because I’m sure this door is crawling with germs.
Thank you, Jesus, I think. I promise not to commit any bathroom crimes ever again.
I slide back the lock on the door, double-check that my skirt is pulled down properly and covering everything it’s supposed to cover, and then push the door open and stride forward confidently.
I nearly walk into him.
“Aughfwoo!” I yelp, and stop suddenly, and the sudden stop makes my heel catch on a piece of broken tile and have I mentioned that I am, technically, somewhat inebriated? And anyway, now I’m flailing in the general direction of the urinal.
“Whoa,” he says, and catches me, one hand on my upper arm, holding me until I’ve properly found my footing again.
“You left,” I gasp, the only thing I can think of because I’m medium-drunk and also medium-stunned and more-than-medium confused.
“Really? Seems like I’m still here,” he says, one eyebrow slightly raised, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face.
His very, very handsome face.
For a second, my brain simply switches off because this bathroom stranger might be the most handsome man I’ve seen in my life. He’s probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in person, and absolutely the most handsome one I’ve seen in a men’s bathroom.
Tall. Wide. Green eyes. Brown hair, tending to gold in spots. Slight stubble. Square jaw. Forest-green t-shirt stretched over thick shoulders and biceps that must be Photoshopped or something.
I feel like someone must be playing a trick on me. Did my roommates somehow hire someone to come flirt with me in the bathroom? Is this some kind of setup?
Am I being catfished? Are they the ones catfishing me, or do they think they’re doing something nice by hiring an excessively attractive man to follow me in here?
I stop gawping, clear my throat, and look directly into a sea of green.
“This is the women’s restroom, right?” I ask.
Chapter Two
Thalia
Single eyebrow still raised, he casually looks to his left, then his right, as if he’s searching for something, and even that is attractive.
Good Lord, what is in a Smurf’s Vacation?
“It’s not,” he says, his smile widening a few millimeters and giving me heart palpitations. “And I have to say, I was under the impression that women’s restrooms didn’t have urinals.”
I rub my hands together, palms slightly sweaty, and glance over at the urinal.
“Though since I’ve never been in a women’s restroom, I can’t say I know for sure,” he goes on. “If there’s a line for the men’s, I just wait.”
“I’m sure you also only cross the street at crosswalks and never exceed the speed limit,” I say, my mouth running ahead of my brain. “Since you love following rules so much.”
I press my lips together, because I need to stop talking. I’m nervous and slightly drunk, and that’s making me be an asshole to this very handsome man who’s clearly just teasing me.
Flirting? Is he flirting?
Oh no. Oh crap. Oh no.
How do people flirt?!
“If you opened the door and then shut it just so I’d come out and you could bust me, that’s entrapment,” I inform him, heart hammering away in my chest, mouth still several steps ahead of brain. “And entrapment is unconstitutional and also illegal.”
He smiles, his green eyes crinkling.
For Pete’s sake, he has dimples.
Send help.
“And mean,” I add because I can’t stop myself.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a cop, just a concerned citizen,” he says, still dimpling.
I pause. I make myself take a deep breath and think for half a second before I respond.
“And you find me concerning?” I finally ask, tilting my head to one side.
He takes a moment to answer, his eyes narrowing even though his smile doesn’t dim. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was checking me out, but obviously that’s just the Smurf’s Vacation talking.
“It’s a position I’m coming around to,” he says. His voice is low, relaxing, with just a hint of a rasp and a dollop of Southern twang.
Must be a townie, because there’s no way on God’s green earth that he’s a student. I know a whole lot of students, and zero of them are anything like this.
“How, exactly, do I concern you?” I ask.
My chest feels like it’s filled with jello. My palms are damp. I can hear my pulse roaring through my ears.
Some people are born flirts. It comes naturally to them. Talking to an attractive member of the opposite sex doesn’t freak them out. The thought that someone might be interested in them doesn’t invoke a flight-or-fight reaction.
I, on the other hand, am a born not-flirt. Every single time I find a guy attractive or interesting, I wind up sticking my foot in my mouth so hard I leave
teeth marks on my knee.
“For one thing, I’m terribly worried over your inability to read simple door signs,” he says. “The one on this door does indicate that it’s for men.”
“Does it?” I ask, opening my eyes wider. “Is that what that funny little picture meant? I thought it was some sort of ancient pictogram, carved by the Paleolithic humans who dwelled here. I was about to report my findings to the Smithsonian.”
Too sarcastic?
Too sarcastic. Crap.
“Thank God I spared you that embarrassment,” he deadpans.
“And yet, you just couldn’t leave well enough alone?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “I’m just trying to live my life and skip the women’s bathroom line.”
Now he’s grinning. The dimples are very deep, and I force myself to resist the urge to stick a finger into one.
“I’ve always been too curious for my own good,” he says, still smiling, shrugging. “And I’ve never liked letting people get away with things.”
“Things like using a restroom in peace?”
“Things like taking the law into their own hands and skipping a line,” he teases.
I finally break away from his gaze and head for the sink to wash my hands, watching him over my shoulder in the mirror.
“Bathroom lines are the result of misogynistic architecture,” I say. “Meaning that bathroom design is awful for women and fine for men.”
I’ve got a whole thesis to back up this statement, but right now I need to concentrate on getting soap out of this dispenser. It’s trickier than it looks, I swear.
“So you weren’t just skipping a line, you were subverting the patriarchy,” he says.
My chest feels even wobblier, and something tightens in my stomach. It’s not fair of me, but I’m definitely surprised that a man this handsome just said subverting the patriarchy in casual conversation.
“Exactly,” I say, shutting off the water. “When we finally elect a female president, it’ll be because of this moment.”
“So I shouldn’t go through with my citizens’ arrest?” he asks. “I was all set to try and remember the Miranda rights so I could do it properly.”
“And we’ve established that you do things properly,” I say, grabbing a paper towel and drying my hands. “Crosswalks, speed limits, and now Miranda rights.”
I ball up the paper towel and toss it at the trash can.
I miss by about a mile, and of course he picks it up and tosses it in.
Then he rests one hand on the door handle and gives me a brief, up-and-down look that makes me unspeakably nervous.
“What if instead of arresting you, I bought you a drink?” he asks.
I swear there’s a herd of buffalo stampeding through my chest and right over my brain.
“That’s your move?” I say. “You trap a girl in a bathroom and give her an either-or proposition?”
Then I snap my mouth shut because that’s not what I meant to say, that’s nothing like what I meant to say, but I’m nervous and terrible at this.
I’m going to die a virgin, aren’t I?
For the record, I meant to say something like yes, you’re very handsome and also kinda funny and I think I’d like to continue our acquaintance.
His smile fades.
“Sorry,” he says, voice suddenly serious, the smile disappearing from his face. “It’s not a move and you’re not trapped.”
He pulls on the door handle.
The door doesn’t open. It catches with a quiet clunk, and he frowns at it.
Nerves and alcohol swirl through me, and before I know it, I’m talking again.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure this isn’t page forty-three of some pick-up artist handbook.”
Then I laugh, so he knows I’m teasing. Flirtatiously. That’s what I’m doing, right?
“If I were following the handbook I’d have already shown you a couple card tricks and started touching you without your consent,” he says, half to himself, as he turns the lock on the door, then pulls it again.
Another clunk. The door is still shut, and now we’re both staring at it.
I’m nervous for a whole new reason.
“Card tricks?” I ask, still staring at the lock.
“Yeah, it’s a big thing with pick-up artists,” he says, tugging at the door again.
Nothing. He flips the lock, but it’s clearly not doing anything, just rasping uselessly around in a circle.
“You know, they wear some ridiculous hat and a loud shirt and carry around a deck of cards so they can go up to cute girls and tell them to pick one?” he says, still talking mostly to the door. “It’s a way for them to get within physical proximity of a target without seeming threatening.”
He grabs the handle with both hands and pulls, the muscles in his arms knotting in a very pleasing fashion.
The door doesn’t open, just bangs back and forth against the door frame.
“Don’t, you’re gonna break it,” I say.
“It’s already broken,” he says, though he steps back from it. “Shit. Shit.”
I approach the door and, mindful of my above-the-knee skirt, crouch in front of it even as I don’t entirely believe the situation.
This is not really happening, right?
The door’s just stuck and if we kinda nudge it the right way, we’ll be free to go, right?
I jiggle the lock, but the lever just spins freely, obviously not connected to anything any more.
“Hold on,” he says, and his voice is closer than I thought it would be, close enough that it sends a prickle down my spine and I hold my breath, tense. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or his proximity that makes me suddenly warmer, blood rushing to my face as I’m intensely, acutely aware of the inches between us.
The stampede is back.
Then a bright light shines over my shoulder, into the crack between the door and the frame, the deadbolt gleaming in the phone flashlight as it spans the gap.
This door is very locked, and the lock mechanism is very much not working.
I flick the lock’s lever one more time, just to make sure. It spins and then hangs straight down, completely useless.
“Well, that’s answered,” he says, his voice not far from my ear. My spine prickles again and I swallow hard, closing my eyes, honestly not sure if I’m excited or nervous or both or neither.
We stand. He takes a step away, then holds his phone up to his ear. I take a deep breath, look around, try to maintain control of my faculties despite the ginger whiskeys and the Smurf’s Vacation.
It’s a challenge. He sighs, fixes his eyes on the ceiling light, shoves one hand through his light brown hair.
“Come on, answer,” he mutters.
I rub my hands together, then intertwine my fingers. They feel distant, like they’re further away from my body than they should be, and I’m trying to anchor them back to myself, keep my body parts from drifting off on a sea of bright blue booze.
I’m never, ever taking a shot again.
“Steve, for fuck’s sake,” he says, lowering his phone, hitting a button, then listening again.
My phone is, of course, in my purse and my purse is back at the table.
My roommates must have noticed my absence.
Surely, rescue is imminent.
I take a detailed inventory of the bathroom anyway.
One sink with a smudged mirror and soap dispenser. One beige stall, made of standard-issue bathroom stall material, containing one toilet. One urinal. One ancient-looking paper towel dispenser. One nearly-full trash can under a smallish window, set back into the wall, made of those blurry glass panes.
“Put the beer down and answer your phone, you idiot,” the man says behind me growls. “Jesus.”
I stand under the window and look up at it, hands against the concrete wall, balancing on my toes. For a moment I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath as everything sways slightly, and then I open them again.
I’m pretty sur
e the window opens. I think I see a crank.
Now he’s pacing, phone still pressed to his ear, even though the bathroom isn’t big enough for him to take more than two steps.
Step, step, turn. Step, step, turn. Even here, and even despite his size — I’m pretty sure he’s north of six feet — he’s oddly lithe and graceful, his whole body smooth clockwork.
Step, step, turn. Like some sort of caged animal.
I’m staring. Am I staring?
I’m for sure staring and… no. No, I’m not stopping. Everything about him is delicious and I think that even if I tried to, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Finally, he takes the phone away from his ear and shoves it back into his pocket, shaking his head.
“No dice,” he says, that edge back in his voice. “You?”
“My phone’s out there,” I say, and turn to the door.
One option left. I cross the bathroom, raise my fist and pound on the wood.
“HELP!” I shout, still banging. “WE’RE STUCK!”
I’m rewarded almost immediately with footsteps.
“HEY!” a woman’s voice shouts.
“HEY, THE LOCK’S BROKEN!” I shout back.
“WHAT?”
“THE LOCK! IS BROKEN!”
“OH SHIT! CAN YOU GET OUT?”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, because this clearly isn’t going to be simple.
“NO! WE’RE TRAPPED!”
Behind me, he’s pacing again, both hands jammed into his pockets, jaw clenched.
“I’M GONNA GET HELP!” the woman on the other side shouts. “STAY STRONG!”
“Fuck,” he mutters.
Step, step, turn. Step, step, turn. I watch as he goes back and forth, back and forth.
“Are you claustrophobic?” I finally ask, leaning against the door.
“No,” he says. “But I don’t exactly love being trapped in small spaces. No one does.”
“Some people do,” I point out. “It’s a whole fetish. People build themselves pods and lockers and — uh, I saw a documentary once.”
That was the Vacation talking.
“A documentary?” he asks, still pacing.
“You’re the one who knows what page forty-three of the pickup artist handbook says,” I point out.