What makes you blush?

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I still reply it in my mind.

Horrible.  Stupid.  Lame.  But that's the way public restrooms are.  I rejoice in the empty public restroom, but how often does it stay that way?  Spying between the cracks.  Maybe even ducking to check for feet.  Listening carefully for sounds.  Nobody there?  Hurry!  Into the stall to paper the seat and do your business before anyone enters, except...  The paper wouldn't come loose.

I spun and spun.  It was full roll, but I couldn't find the end!  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  Somebody enters and goes into the handicapped stall.  Spin, spin, scrabble and spin.  Where's the frigging end?  I gave up.  I left the stall and futzed around at the sink.  The other other stall had some fat woman trickling in little bursts and shifting her tiny feet stuffed into tiny shoes on the tile floor.  I pretended I was busy.  I had to pee so badly, but I was too stupid to figure out the toilet paper!  Maybe it was because I had to pee.  I paced.  I listened for the sound of pants being lifted, and the door opened.  You walked in.

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry you asked me if I was going into that stall because what could I say but, "No."  I couldn't add that I was too stupid to figure out where the end of the roll was.  You went in.  The fat lady rolled out.  I ran in and held my breath from the stink while you spun the roll.  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  And cursing.  Cursing me.

I came out first and was washing my hands as fast as I could, but I wasn't fast enough.  You drip-dried and burst out of the stall like a gunslinger slapping open the doors to the cantina.  You saw me and your eyes narrowed in the mirror.  You faced my reflection and I blushed and blushed and blushed and thought, "Oprah waits for the handicapped stall because she likes it.  Maybe that's what I was doing.  Maybe that's it.  That's it.  I didn't even know.  How could I know?  Maybe I only decided at the last moment I should pee.  How do you know I was even in that stall?"  You knew.

"You could have told me.  That was awful, not telling me.  You let me go in there, and you knew.  You're horrible."

I'm horrible.  I know.  Public restrooms.  Horrible places that bring out the horribleness in me.  I can't talk in a public restroom.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, but I couldn't tell you.  I can't discuss anything bathroom-related, much less public bathroom-related.  I wish you hadn't been there.  I wish I had been able to talk.  I wish you had found the end of the paper the way I thought you would.  I wish you hadn't yelled at me and looked at me with such hate.  Such hate that twisted your face and haunts me to this day.  I wish I could let go, but I'm like that toilet paper: stuck in a loop.  I'm sorry, lady.  Forgive me.

Pageant Question 25: If you were given ten dollars, what would you do with it?

Perspective, thought Gabe, picking through a recycling bin.  It's all about perspective.  He pulled out one last returnable liter bottle and dropped it in his bag, being careful to lower the lid of the recycling bin quietly.  He didn't want the cops to chase him away again because next time, they might not be so friendly.  Perspective again.  Gabe thought about how he used to hear sirens and bask in the security of his warm home and silently thank the security forces that kept him safe from all the junkies and drunks outside.  Perspective.

Back in the day, Gabe never even returned his own bottles.  Hoisting the nearly-full garbage bag over his shoulder, he cursed his past self for wastefulness and cursed himself again for wallowing in what he couldn't change.  Change was what his life was about now, wasn't it?  Change from what it was and what had been pocket change that now meant food or the special treat of a cup of coffee.  He used to have a pot of imported coffee every morning, ground and brewed just for him.  Gabe balanced himself on his bike, one bag of cans and bottles perched sideways across the handlebars and the other he held with his left hand, balanced on the narrow, improvised platform on the back, and began the treacherous ride to the bottle return.  When both bags were full, he could guarantee at least ten bucks as long as there weren't too many of those liter bottles.  Ten bucks.  I'm rich, he thought, and, surprising himself, he meant it.  Perspective.

197

That's it, she thought.  This is how I am going to die.  Tara was detachedly surprised at her own calm acceptance.  She was miffed by her lack of anger, denial, fight, determination, lust for life.  Down she went, arms raised, for the second time.  Once more.  We only ever get three.  Tara saw the sun, the sky, the distant palm tree line, and, most of all, the water.  Where before they had vibrant color, now they were shades of grey.  There had been the sound of waves, calling, laughing, a whistle, the breeze, but now there was nothing.  Up, arms outstretched.  Time became tangible.  Tara thought she should feel regret, sadness, sorrow, guilt, but she was fascinated instead by the new knowledge that a "moment" was real and could be touched and stretched and felt on the skin.  I should say something nice.  Down again, time's length shrinking into a width as wide as the ocean, and as deep.

(This was my try at "micro fiction", a.k.a. "flash fiction".)