A man who smells like stale cigarettes steps into the doorway, invading my space and lighting up another cigarette that he puffs my way. The orange glow holds my attention as I keep my phone close to my chest.
Fire.
I hate fire.
A cough builds in my lungs, and I step back, putting some distance between us.
“You waiting on some friends?” His thick gray mustache hits his bottom lip as he talks.
“My boyfriend is coming to get me. I’m at the wrong place.”
“Oh… so, you’re lost then.”
“Not lost,” I correct him. “I know where I am, but it isn’t where I’m meant to be.”
“No.” He takes another puff and blows another cloud of smoke into my face.
Before it chokes me, I press my lips together.
His eyes wander down the length of my dress, stalling on each curve. I keep my purse at my stomach, hiding what I don’t want to be seen.
“Women who look like you don’t usually hang around here. How about you let me get you a drink while you wait for your boyfriend?”
“No, thank you. Sensitive bladder and alcohol don’t mix.” Hopefully, that admission will put him off, but his toothless smile says otherwise. “I need the bathroom.”
I brave the eyes of the crowd once more, moving to the battered red door with a lady symbol. Her crisscrossed legs hintthat this is the restroom, and the smell that welcomes me as I push open the door confirms everything.
I move to a cubicle and slam down the seat, hiding the unflushed contents and giving me somewhere, though uncomfortable, to sit.
I check my messages.
There are no additional messages.
Dollancie:
Can you at least come and meet me?
The rain is bad, and the people are weird.
I wait for an answer, and ten minutes pass while I stalk through social media pages.
Everyone seems to be having a nice night tonight…
Everyone but me.
The main door opens, and I quickly stand, securing the cubicle’s weak door.
“What do you think she’s doing in here?” A woman’s voice blares.
“Probably plotting to steal our men,” another replies, her accent thick with accusation, her tone heavy with alcohol.
Keeping my eyes on my phone, I wait for Shane to open my message, but it remains unread.
Satin fails to relax me, and I scrunch my dress harder, worsening the creases.
A heavy fist pounds on my door, and it rattles on its hinges. A brass voice follows, “Come out, you little bitch!”
A cold tear falls down my flushed cheeks, and I check my phone again, seeing no new messages.
