I drink a lot of water at work.
There's a 1.5-liter bottle, an Fiji bottle I hung on to because I loved the shape, that sits on my desk, and I fill it up and drink it at least once a day. I know for a fact that some people here easily drink that much soda in a day. Yuck. At least I'm capable of making one good choice in my consumption habits.
Drinking a lot of water, of course, leads to taking a lot of bathroom breaks.
Well, if you're me, anyway. (OvershareCentral.com?)
There are two bathrooms on the floor my office lives on: one through the double glass doors and down a carpeted…bridge-type thing facing the main entrance and parking lot, and one out the back door, past the mail room. I am not a creature of habit like so many of these cul-de-sac dwelling pod people, so I'm sure to visit both bathrooms at least once a day.
Though. I do always choose the same stall. And I'm enraged when someone is alone in the bathroom and has chosen the middle stall. (There must be a teaching moment in some Seinfeld episode about leaving a buffer, right?)
The bathroom nearest the parking lot always reeks of aerosol hairspray; there's a woman who works for the law firm on the opposite side of the building who wanders in there several times a day to touch up her shellac helmet.
In the back-hall bathroom, one of the automatic soap dispensers has been broken for months, and the management company shows no sign of compliance with our wishes to have it fixed. To ease our frustrations, apparently, someone brought in a bar of plain white soap that sits in a makeshift soap dish; it looks like it was actually made from the top of an economy-size can of Planters peanuts. Scandal ensued, of course — how unsanitary.
Each has its own charm, as much as a bathroom can.
But both are equipped with identical motion sensors that operate the lights, so they turn off when no one's been in for a while.
I always feel a tiny shiver of glee when I walk in and the lights flick on before me. The air is still and cool, perfumed with sweet, industrial air freshener.
And without fail, every time I walk into that still bathroom and gingerly tap the door on my stall, I imagine I'll encounter resistance from a still-turned lock. Looking under the stall door, I'll see a pair of feet. Inside, the person is slumped over, unconscious or, worse, dead.
I never consider what I'd do, how I'd react.
Just that it could happen.
Because that's absolutely the sort of thing that would happen here.