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She had to get away.  The timing wasn't ideal, but when was it ever?  Her boyfriend of six years proposed last month and she had said yes.  They met at one of the Marist College dining halls.  He was a junior, she a sophomore.  There might have been a slight drizzle outside that afternoon.  Since that fateful day, they've been together.  The two of them were happy together, but there was nothing particularly special about their relationship.  Did she love him?  She was kind to her, she knew that.

Her boss, an attractive woman in her mid thirties, hadn't approved her last minute request for a week off.   What a bitch.  Not deterred, she bought her ticket to Europe anyways with some of the money her and her fiancé had put aside for the wedding.  He was surprised she wanted to get away for a week, but supported her decision nonetheless.  So kind.  She conveniently failed to mention to him the plane ticket she bought was one way.  Oh well.

Three months later...in bathroom stall at De Club Up in Amsterdam, she snorts a line of coke she scored from the bouncer with a lady she had met at the same club a week prior.  There's a message written in black magic marker on the stall door, and although her Dutch is adequate, neither her nor her newfound friend can read it, do to their level of intoxication.  She's done a lot of cocaine the past month and has lost some weight because of it.  House music blaring from the resident DJ rattles the bathroom floor.  Six hours from now, she's supposed to board a plane back to the States, but that is of no concern to her now.   If she misses it, she misses it.  The same thing happened last month and the month before that.  Her friend asks for toilet paper and she pulls out a roll from her purse.  Always handy.  As she wipes, they argue over where to go next.  Her friend has spent most of the night grinding up on some rando and wants them to go back to his flat.  She has no interest in being the third wheel and lets that be known.  A lady in six inch stilettos bangs on the stall door and yells at them to hurry up.  What a bitch.  They tell her to buzz off.

Even with the music pounding, they can both hear that someone left one of the two bathroom sinks running.  The line of coke has her feeling good and she no intention of leaving the club anytime soon.  Besides, she looks damn good in the lavender dress she borrowed from the friend alongside her now.  Outside, there's a street vendor that sells herring.  Among all the arguing and commotion in the bathroom, they both suddenly realize how funny their current predicament is.  Each doing bumps as the other one pees.  They laugh so loud the ladies in the other stalls can hear.  The two of them embrace for an extended moment and help each other wipe the residue off their noses with toilet paper.  All cleaned up, the twosome agree to reconvene in the bathroom after another hour on the dance floor.  Banging on the stall door comes once again from the bitch in stilettos.  Words are exchanged as they leave the stall.  For the first time, she notices the restroom is dimly lit red.  That would be the last thing she would notice that evening, as the rest of the night became a blur.

She awoke 3pm the next afternoon on the futon of that rando's third floor flat.  Flight missed.  Oh well.  Still wearing the lavender dress, she knew she had remained faithful to her fiancé.  They corresponded via email.  He sent one daily, she responded weekly.  Odd she thought, that he had so much to say and she so little, though she was the one exploring the world and he was the one stuck in his daily routine back home.  Three kids could be heard kicking a soccer ball down below.  Would she marry him?  Once her money ran out and there were no more couches to crash on, then yes, yes she would marry him.  Lethargically looking out the living room window, she pondered why she kept pushing back her return date?  The answer was obvious, yet saying it aloud was not.  Saying it in person to him would be even less so.  How could she tell her fiancé she felt more alive in a bathroom stall with a relative stranger than she had in the past six years with him?

Back on the futon, staring at the crack in the ceiling, she laid in silence.  Was it raining that day they met at Marist?  She can’t seem to recall.

 

End

 

bio: I'm Brian Glass and thanks for reading.  I'm a stand-up comedian that hardly ever gets paid to perform.  You can see me telling inappropriate jokes in bars and small clubs all across the Northeast. Founder and chief content officer for aftertimeexpires.com.  Hit me up at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it./@brianglss

 

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