In the Ladies Room at the Amusement Park near the Stall with the Broken Lock (You Know the One) | Megan Fahey
You were like: “Aaahhhhyyyyghhhgh!”
So aggressive as I opened the door.
I almost dropped my paper plate. The look on your face
scared the sugar off my deep-fried cake,
and it speckled my souvenir shirt.
But you weren’t doing anything I didn’t already know.
It’s not like you were picking your nose
(though I know you do that, too)
It’s not like you came in to vomit.
You were so calm at first and quiet,
which is why I barged into begin with.
It’s not like your farts rattled the metal doors
loud as they erupted from you, all their different sounds.
It’s not like you had diarrhea, which flooded the town and shut down the rides,
and got a family stuck high atop the roller coaster.
It’d be fine, though, if you did, if you were sick.
It’s not like you were in there with a corn dog up your butt
But, if that’s your thing, whatever.
I still would have said, “Whoops. Sorry.”
I still would have begged your pardon.
“Whoops. I didn’t realize–”
“Whoops. I checked below the stall, underneath, for your feet
But you had them propped against the wall for leverage.”
“I didn’t think
you might have drank two ninety-nine cent tanks of Diet Coke.”
You know, your pee doesn’t have to be clear like your tears all the time,
and it’s not like you were crying.
It’s not like this is the private place you weep into a funnel cake.
It’s not mine either.
But if it was, would you care?
Are you almost done in there?
Megan Fahey is an MFA student at West Virginia University where she teaches creative writing and works as editor-in-chief of the Cheat River Review. In addition to having some short plays produced, her work has appeared in Blinders Journal, Cease, Cows, and Allegory E-Zine among others.