Met a girl in a bathroom stall once.
That kinda chance encounter people talk about. She stumbled drunk to the bathroom and when she saw cocks out and piss flowing, she probably realized it was the men’s restroom.
But she seemed like one of those chicks that let giving a fuck roll right off her back. She went into the back stall, put strips of toilet paper around the seat, and plopped down.
I stumbled in drunk, too, it being a bar and all, and went to the last stall. Always had a weird thing about pissing in front of other dudes.
There she was. The glow of her smartphone illuminating her face and crossed legs, and, “STUPID FUCKING CUNTS,” scrawled across the fading green stall wall.
My hands had already been undoing my pants to piss. The cheap light beer flowed through me fast that night.
“Well, are you gonna undo ‘em or not, kid?” she said, even though she looked about my age.
“Huh?” I said, too dumb and drunk to stammer anything else or proceed with the unzipping.
“You’re dick, brown eyes, you gonna pull it out or not? This is your shot, take it,” she said.
To my right, the bathroom appeared empty now except for the smell of shit and unflushed urinals. I tugged at my zipper, exposing my blue boxers. My hands shook.
She stood up and shoved past me, laughing.
“Whadda think, I’m a whore or somethin’?” she said, and stopped to wash her hands at the sink. No soap. She used hand sanitizer in her purse.
“No, I didn’t think that. I just…just had to piss,” I tried to save myself.
“And what, were you gonna piss down my mouth? Does my pretty tongue look like a urinal cake to you, kid?” she said.
“You were the one in the men’s bathroom. Unless you have a dick swinging between your legs…,” I started.
She swung her hand between her legs and then grabbed at her vagina.
“No dick down here,” she said.
And with that, she turned and walked out of the men’s restroom rubbing shoulders with a guy coming in decked out in military garb.
“Shit, man, this is what I missed about the States, a good bar fuck,” military man said, his hand held out, apparently for a high-five.
I hadn’t zipped my pants. I did then and moved past the rather lanky, but well-tanned guy.
My blood-shot eyes scanned the bar. Light traffic since it was a Thursday. There were the two regular truckers at the end of the bar still hammering cheeseburgers and Jack’s. The married couple, silent, at one of the few tables. And no sign of the girl from the stall.
Through the neon light fixture announcing that the bar was open, I saw her on the sidewalk, arm outstretched. Within seconds, a money-hungry and bored taxi driver stopped a few feet from her.
She climbed in, probably muttered a destination to him, and he pulled from the curb, cutting off an SUV.
I went home that night in my own car, eyes scanning any reds and blues in the rearview and didn’t take long to connect head to pillow.
But the next day, she stayed on my throbbing mind. The way she called me kid. And teased me.
That night I returned to the bar and stayed till close. Didn’t see her. As I twirled my straw in a rye whiskey, I tried to picture her. Couldn’t remember if she had black or dark brown hair and if it was curled or straight. Guess I had more beers than I thought.
I was sure I could spot her out, if she came back in. And she still didn’t. Not the next day or the next.
And still, she lingered.
Chance encounter. A shit-stained porcelain rendezvous. Nothing happened and yet everything did.