Chapter Seven - Restroom Interlude: Echoes, Graffiti, and Unholy Air Fresheners

CHAPTER SEVEN

Restroom Interlude: Echoes, Graffiti, and Unholy Air Fresheners

THE CALL OF nature hits hard and fast.
Like an unpaid parking ticket from the cosmos.
I follow the mall signs like I'm on a pilgrimage:
RESTROOM → RESTROOM → RESTROOM → ??? → RESTROOM.

I push open the door and immediately regret it.
The smell hits me like a memory I repressed on purpose.
Someone in here committed a war crime with a Panda Express combo meal.

There’s a single sink that both leaks and screams.
It sounds like it’s been abandoned by God.

I take the stall farthest from the door.
The one that looks like it’s seen things.
I sit.

The graffiti on the door says:

“Don’t trust the pretzel guy.
Also, you’re not who you think you are.”

Comforting.

From the stall next to mine, I hear whispering.
Someone’s talking on the phone about NFTs and betrayal.
They say,

“He never paid me in Dogecoin, man. Never.”
I nod in solemn empathy, even though I’m not involved.

Suddenly, the lights flicker.
Just once.
Long enough for the air freshener to puff directly into my eye.
It smells like artificial pine trauma.

On the way out, I wash my hands like a hero.
The soap smells like fear and cucumber.
A child walks in, looks at me, and says,

“You’re doing great.”
Then leaves.

I don’t know if he was real.

I walk back out into the world a little changed.
A little more aware.
And slightly damp.

Totally normal.