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The emotional strain of the moment broke when we both rerouted our gazes to the door behind me as it creaked open, my body nearly slumping in relief. My gaze flicked back to AJ in time to see him take a step backward, probably in preparation to make a swift exit. I’m sure he wasn’t keen to be caught having a… whatever this was or would appear to be, in a ladies’ bathroom. Meanwhile, my mind was entirely void of any plans—quite on brand for me—as my gaze swung back to the narrow opening in the open bathroom door.
A young man, somewhere around my age, walked—well, more like shimmied, as he kept moving his shoulders and head as if dancing to a song only he could hear—along the stalls, peering into each one as if looking for something in particular.
Finally, he paused his dance at the stall closest to us. It was the one I knew housed a satirical, and vaguely offensive, version of Salvator Rosa’s Allegory of Fortune. In this version, the goddess Fortuna holds a cornucopia overflowing with gambling chips and gold coins branded with Fortuna’s logo, and instead of farm animals receiving the bounty, there are several pairs of hands reaching out to receive the wealth.
“Ah, here’s my room,” the stranger muttered, not sparing us even a glance as he walked into the stall, pulled the door almost shut—without locking it—and began relieving himself.
AJ took another step back and muttered, “What the fuck.”
I stood there, frozen, as the sound of the mystery guy taking care of business went on and on, amplified by the hard surfaces of the bathroom walls as well as the high ceiling.
AJ made it to the door he’d originally come in through and grabbed the handle, poised to flee the scene. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk.” And less than a heartbeat later, he was gone.
How on brand.
The moment the door fully closed, an audible flush rang through the room. Then the stall door swung open, and my unheralded angel stepped through. He walked—normally this time—to the sink and washed his hands with just as much vigor as I’d washed my face with earlier. In the same sink I’d used too.
Which was, for some reason, what my brain deemed important to note.
He unrolled one of the logo-embroidered hand towels and dried his hands thoroughly before tossing the towel into the bin. Bringing his hands to his face, he closed his eyes and inhaled, sighing deeply at the smell.
“This bathroom has the best soap, and I’ve tried all of them. Just lovely.”
I continued staring at him, unsure how to respond, which could be considered on brand for me.
He didn’t seem to mind and just leaned back against the sink with a pleasant smile on his face.
“I, um…. Yeah. That was like a scene from Austin Powers in there,” I supplied as I gestured to the Allegory of Fortune stall.
His smile transformed from amiable to delighted. “I know! It’s the complimentary cranberry juices. I can’t get enough of them. Would you like to shake hands now?” Then he did a brief demonstration of jazz hands and said, “As you know, they’re clean.”
“This is a women’s bathroom.” My brain must’ve been coming back online and was processing events bit by bit. My gaze flicked over him. “And your top seems… under-seasoned.”
My eyes widened as my brain did an instant replay of the last three seconds. I’ve lost my words.
He threw his head back and laughed. It was a beautiful, free sound. “Do you mean incomplete? Or better yet, fabulous? Cozy, even? Too much and not enough?” He put his hands in the pockets of his deep-green knit cardigan, brought his shoulders up to his ears, and twisted his upper body, effectively snuggling into himself. The cardigan had dark-brown leather elbow patches and a row of mismatched buttons down the front.
He wore no shirt underneath, making his nipples and belly button visible through the loose knit along with a multitude of tattoos covering his left arm and side. He had a lean frame and was a couple inches shorter than me, putting him around five-foot-seven. The straight, nearly black hair on one side of his head rested just past his shoulder, while the other half was buzzed to his scalp.
All those elements combined should have resulted in intense bad-boy vibes, but the sincere glint in his eyes and playful demeanor belied that notion.
He extended his hand and gave introductions another try. “I’m Liem. Do you come here often, Miss…?” He trailed off and cocked an eyebrow.
“Bree,” I supplied as I took his hand and shook. “And yes. The finest women's powder room in Mississippi is one of my favorite places for awkward altercations.”
He released my hand. “And your other favorites?” he inquired as if it were completely normal to engage in small talk now that our formal acquaintances had been made.
This bathroom had transformed from a panic room to an emotional boxing ring to a social hour at an admittedly quite funky country club in the span of thirty minutes.
Liem casually removed his cardigan, which left him in just tan drawstring linen pants.
So… the bathroom’s final iteration would be a… strip club?
“Your outfit seems a little under-seasoned too,” he observed, gesturing for me to turn around and face the mirror.
For reasons unknown, I complied, pivoting in place and watching our reflections in the mirror as he helped me into the garment he’d just shrugged off.
As soon as my arms were through the sleeves, I mimicked his earlier motion and nestled into the fabric. “It’s so soft and huge,” I whispered.
