I have a lunch date in 30 minutes. If I don’t run to the bathroom I fear I might create a puddlle in the middle of the restaurant. I dash down the hall and into the back bathroom. It is sort of an unspoken truth that it is the pooping bathroom

(at least that’s the deduction I have made from the fecal grafitti that is impressively splattered to the uppermost edges of the bowl)

hat means people are used to visits lasting a little longer. I lock the door behind me and undo my buttons.
I turn the water on, up enough so that the sound of it hitting the basin can be heard outside the door. This is not to mask any embarassing sounds, I am not here to poop. I am simply trying to alert anyone on the other side that I am in here and that there is still business being handled.

Phew. I thought I might burst.

I hear the clickety clack of heels outside, they stop just shy of the door. Good. The water worked. It continues to cascade down the shiny white walls of the sink. Little bits of water splash me every so often as the water pressure varies. I was so full, the release is intoxicating.

Click, clack, click. She must be walking over to the window. I blow the hair out of my eyes. Still going.

Click, clack, click. She is at the door. She clears her throat.

I call out, “It’ll just be another minute.”

Click, click. I think she has stepped a respectful distance from the door in anticipation of my exit.

I try to hurry, but it just makes things stop. Performance anxiety. I try to listen to the water to relax myself.

More clicking and clacking and what I imagine are crossed arm sighs.

I look at myself in the mirror and close my eyes. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I loosen my shoulders. Ok, there we go, now–

Knock, knock, knock.

“Yup, sorry, hang on.” Damnit, stopped again.

Ok, desperate times call for desperate measures.

And even when your hope is gone, move along, move along…

Clack. Click. CLACK. CLICK.

Shake it off, Amanda. Whew. Ok. Here it comes. And then, not ten sconds later-

Tap tap tap.

She was tapping her damn foot.

Ok. Squeeze. Come on. You have to get this out before lunch. Squeeze. Gentle. Breathe. Ok. Hmmmmm. Ah-hmmmmm.

Clickety, clack, clack, clack.

Ok. Fine. Damnit. I turn the water off and get myself buttoned up. I open the door and this woman stands there. She has a look of surprise on her face as if to say:

“Oh, my. I had no idea anyone was in there.” She smiles at me. Pure fakeness.

I look at her. I open my mouth and almost lay in to her, but she is from the Senator’s office. It wouldn’t be a good idea. I smile back. Pure fakeness. I turn on my heel and roll my eyes as I know she is about to go in there and sniff. I smile as I realize she may very well think:

“Wow. Her shit doesn’t stink.” Sniff, sniff.

All her pert little nose will detect is the scent of sweet, hand expressed milk in the sink thanks to the breast pump I left sitting on the kitchen counter at home.