Exercise 84

Nothing Quite Like a Dormitory

Single sex bathrooms, yeah right. There is nothing single about the sex in the dorm bathrooms.

I hear the giggling first and their speaking in tongues. No, it’s French. How romantic. I roll my eyes and sigh. The laughing stops and they’re in the shower stall next to me. The sound of water not masking the low thud of one body smacking up against checkered tile. Please not again. Jesus, get a room. She’s moaning now, louder and louder. I sing louder and louder in my head to make it stop. Then it does. A one minute man, eh? The water is still running and I keep soaping my breasts over and over again. I’ve been done minutes ago and the water is starting to get cold. Are they finished already? Thank God.

I get curious and pull back my curtain. I have red marks against my chest from scratching too hard with the loofah. I look to the right, eyes still stinging from the shampoo incident moments earlier. I blink through the foam. “Hello?” But the only sound is of running water. I try again louder. “Hello!?” Still no answer. I rinse off and turn the faucet to the zero. I pull on my robe, and use my hand to squeegee off the water running down in streams down my thighs, shins, ankles and collecting around my feet. I forgot my towel again. I step out of the shower, right into a bigger puddle of water.

“Shit,” I yell. “Hey guys, turn off the fucking…” I don’t finish the sentence, looking down I notice it’s not water. It’s the watery red of nicked legs after a too close shave. I see a tangled mess of legs and arms lying out of the shower stall. This is not right.

I scream and then I feel the fingers on my neck.
 
¶ 12:58 PM |