Sal

I called the number on the stall because why not. This person, this "Sal," probably wouldn't answer, probably had the number disconnected long ago. But what if "Sal" picked up? What if "Sal" gave me a good time? What if "Sal" wrote that number down and has been waiting patiently for untold time and no one, not ever, has called.

I called. Busy signal. I waited and called again. Busy. A rapping on the door, "You gonna be much longer pal?" I didn't answer. I called again.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, pal. Buddy!"

"This is Sal."

"This ain't your executive washroom."

"Hello?"

"Hey, pal!"

If I hadn't already gone I would be too scared to go. Sal was there, a disgruntled stranger, what was the good time, were there no other stalls, should I hang up, could I wait it out, eventually one of us will tire of this and that will end it. So I sat. I tried not to breathe. I didn't pull up my pants. I looked back and for between the phone and the wall.

"Hello?"

"Hey!"

"Hello?"

"Hey!"

"Hello?"

And still I didn't move. I had nowhere to be. A good time might be worth the wait. And I'll wait out an uncomfortable one any day. I heard breathing on the other end, breathing on the other side, I heard breathing echoes. We were all waiting, patiently, together.