I hang around in the restroom, motionless. She struts across the room towards me, anger flaming in the piercing eyes that stare straight through me like a knife. She stops yards in front and removes something small from the clutch bag on the counter. ‘Men’ she mutters disdainfully under her breath, replaces the item and turns and leaves just as quickly as she entered.
Thus is my existence.
If I were one of my frequent visitors I would have slit my wrists in anguish at the perpetual loneliness and solitude. The irony of the oxymoron would be laughable were it not so gut-wrenchingly desperate. They come and go all night; apparently it is perfectly conventional to share their most personal secrets with me then turn their backs for the rest of their lives. I am scarred physically too; apparently I double as a catalogue of local relationships. Their sentiments (good and bad) blur my vision, literally scratched into my very being.
Some of society’s biggest players go to the bar whose restroom I hang in. If I had the means I would be a millionaire purely from the scandal I could sell to the tabloids. Sex. Drugs. The Rock and roll lifestyle my unwelcome guests engage in never fails to surprise and sicken me.
The door swings open again and a pale girl who is blatantly a little worse for wear stumbles in. Her cheeks puff out as she enters, her hand hastens to her mouth and she lunges forwards for the sunk in front of me. The night’s frivolities cascade down between us, why do people feel the need to share such things with me?! She washes up and leaves.
I am alone again.