We were out at a bar with Jon and Felicity’s mates from Cambridge and everyone knew each other and no one knew me. I downed three martinis and three buttery nipples, and then excused myself to the loo.
The bathroom was large, clean and surprisingly deserted.
After completing a pee, I continued to sit, reassuring myself that leaving Jon would be ok, that going back to college with my dorm room and my roommate and my easy mac meals would be fine after my four months of European fantasy life.
My internal conversation must have lasted for a while because the next thing I knew, Jon had gotten into the bathroom and was knocking on the stall door insisting I let him in. There was about a foot of space on the floor and he crammed himself in it, sitting on the tile while I held court on the porcelain throne.
We talked for a long time and I don’t remember much of the conversation — just the general feeling of being shrouded in loneliness coupled with drunken crying as we discussed my rapidly approaching departure. He tried to cheer me up, to convince me to come back to the bar, but I wasn’t ready to leave the loo.
On the way out of the bathroom, he mentioned something about sending his sister in to check on me. Had I not been so drunk or lost in thought or comfortable there on that pristine toilet seat, the sheer mention of Felicity would have thrown me into a panic.
Instead, the words seeped into one side of my head and right out the other. His intentions were kind, of course. He thought I needed a female friend and who better then his sister? I didn’t have long to analyze because I forgot. Then, suddenly, I heard the main door to the bathroom fly open and the brisk, calculated clacking of stiletto boots on a mission.
The door slammed just as Felicity echoed,
“Meghan?”
She clacked closer and closer and, to my horror, I realized that the door had not latched behind Jon when he’d exited my stall. In one drunken huff I launched myself towards the stall door, reaching for the latch. At the exact same instant, Felicity placed her knocking fist against the door, and it swung open.
I stood frozen, mascara streaked down my face and neck, rumpled shirt, jeans and underwear around my ankles, crotch still instinctively hovering over the toilet, one arm reaching for the door, the other precariously balancing against the wall, belly button to ankles completely exposed. Because I hadn’t yet “wiped,” the single droplet of urine that pointedly splashed into the toilet punctuated the silence that ensued.
Felicity, wearing pinstripe pants, leather stiletto ankle boots, fitted lavender sweater and perfectly coiffed hair was stunned into clacking-free silence. I came to first, reaching for the door, slamming it, and uttering my apologies. She backed up, still not speaking and I waited.
Eventually I came out of the stall. Felicity stood by the paper towel dispenser with a look that I couldn’t read, something between amusement, pity and understanding. Maybe I just hoped for the understanding. I washed my hands and face while she wordlessly waited for me.
When I was ready, she followed me out of the bathroom, closing the door behind us. Back at the bar, Jon and his friends were ready to leave. He kissed me as we approached, glancing at his sister.
“Everything ok?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“Everything’s fine,” she said. We left the bar and six days later I left England. I never saw Felicity again, but to this day I have trouble getting comfortable in public bathrooms.
