BY BETH BROWN
There they are again: the same feet— black patent flats with a decorative silver buckle on top— presumably attached to the same legs, attached to the same woman who is always in the bathroom stall that my body naturally directs me towards. The second stall is always anybody’s first choice. Nobody wants to go in the first because it’s usually the gross one, and anything beyond stall two is a gamble when it comes to cleanliness and supply of toilet tissue. All women know these things. It’s a given.
Still, this set of feet is always in the second stall. I’ve worked here for over two months and I’ve never been in this restroom when those feet weren’t there. I’ve even mixed it up and decided to go at random times, even if I didn’t actually need to, just to find out if the feet were there. I did this for weeks and it was like somehow she knew.
She’s just there.
It started to get on my nerves around the first of the month. I decided I’d get in a few extra steps and take the stairs and use a restroom on a different floor. There was a strange sense of satisfaction that came with walking in and going right to that second stall, blissfully unoccupied. That’s never the case on the floor where I work. It’s like having to take a detour you didn’t expect, or like trying to drink from a straw before you remember that you don’t have one—there are just some actions that are pure muscle memory.
For me, that’s walking to stall two.
Seeing them there now makes my ears burn. Why can’t she hide from her boss in the last stall like a normal person? I decide I can’t ignore it anymore. I can’t act like she’s not there and keep walking to a sub-par toilet and hope that there’s a functioning lock and no wide gap in the door.
I pretend that I didn’t realize the stall was taken and walk straight over and rattle the door. “Oh, sorry,” I mumble.
There’s no response. Like every other time before, no sound. Not a single drip or a rustle of tissue. No shifting of the feet, no repositioning of clothes, nothing.
It makes me even more furious. “Hellooo?” I say with annoyance crackling in my voice. “You know, you don’t have to be rude.”
I stand there for what feels like forever and notice every muscle in my body start to tense. Like an out of body experience, I watch myself pound on the door with the heel of my hand. “Hey! You know other people would like to use this stall, too. Take a nap in your car or something,” I shout. The indignant response I expect never comes.
I bang on the door again and feel the latch rattle. I don’t stop, I don’t get quiet, I just keep beating the textured plastic until something shakes loose.
I pull back as the door slowly moves inward, my hand frozen in mid-air.
The realization hits me that I’ve probably just scared some poor woman half to death, and now I’m busting in on her as she’s trying to hide out in a bathroom stall. What the hell am I doing?
I watch the door as it swings with painful slowness towards the toilet. A sheet of tissue hangs from the bottom of the dispenser. A layer of dust clouds the top of the purse shelf. The door continues to move until I can see the water in the bowl.
The stall is empty.
The shoes are gone. No legs. No woman. All that’s there are the faded outlines of two footprints made by a pair of patent flats.