Our dinner, having started out as a nervous exchange of simplistic inanities, unusual since we've known each other for over six years now, turned into, by the time we shared a slice of cheesecake, one of the most enjoyable evenings I've experienced as an adult.
At first, we stumbled through chit-chat about the dubious weather. At some point, we moved on to the apparent quality of the restaurant. We mentioned the somewhat mixed reviews we'd read online compared to its appearance and the aromas we enjoyed as we were escorted to our table. We even approached that ever-sucking black hole of conversation: work (quickly deemed a taboo topic, thank God). We finally circled our way around to a biography we'd both enjoyed,
A Woman of No Importance
(which has nothing to do with this story, other than as good literature and a starting point).
Happily, this led to discussions of other books and films, music, and even art, though I actually know nothing of that last, and we smiled at each other and the conversation flowed and the food was delicious. I laughed at her (or with her, since she laughed too) when she tried to unobtrusively sing sotto voce in the crowded restaurant, and she laughed at me stumbling over what I had thought would be semi-intelligent comments, but obviously weren't, critiquing art she loved.
Our first impressions of the eatery were not off the mark. Every table was covered with a white tablecloth, which set off nicely against the somewhat overall rustic look and feel of the place, along with a very pretty candle amid a floral centerpiece. The floor was clean and free of random food bits, unlike so many restaurants, and the windows had shades drawn against the streetlights and passers-by outside. Instrumental music was at a perfect unobtrusive volume. The other diners, many casually well-dressed, all appeared to be enjoying themselves as we passed couples and groups laughing and talking among themselves, though none overly raucously.
We downed citrus-flavored margaritas as we waited for our table and alternated staring at the floor and rehashing those online reviews. As the night went on, we enjoyed a glass of rosé with our salads, a glass of red with our entrees, and a Reisling with the aforementioned cheesecake. I did try to be a responsible girl and included some plain ol' water among my beverage selections, but the only thing this accomplished was to make me need to pee. As we laughed some more, I realized that I really needed to go and I could not wait.
"Your amazing conversation has distracted me from some urgent ladies' room business," I explained as I stood up, still half-giggling. I wobbled as I stood and, in my hurry to get to the restroom, I sort of turned at the same time and lost my balance a bit. Fortunately for me, not so much for him, our waiter was just approaching our table again and I stumbled right into him, almost taking us both to the floor. It was all Betty could do to not let out a guffaw at my half-drunken ineptitude. With profuse apologies to our waiter, I quickly hustled to the restroom.
With every step, my urinary distress became less manageable. I was practically running, holding my thighs together, by the time I reached the ladies' room door. Still, out of habit, I chose the stall farthest from the door because I always felt like it provided more privacy, with another stall on only one side and other bathroom users generally choosing the first available stall, while I did my business. With shaking hands, I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, unzipped, lowered my jeans and panties, and threw myself onto the toilet seat just as I released.
My stream drilled into the toilet water below me for what had to be a full minute. Finally, my stream tapered off and my relief complete, I wiped, pulled up my pants, and returned to my friend at the table, whereupon Betty informed me she had to go now, too, so off she toddled.
We lingered over drinks after dessert, finding our conversations increasingly humorous in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol we consumed. Tequila shots were now our weapon of choice. At some point, I looked around and found the restaurant was much less crowded than it had been earlier, and with my mind off the conversation for a second, I realized I had to pee again. It was late. I assumed the restaurant would be closing soon and we'd be leaving soon, so I thought I'd better take advantage while I could.
I re-created my previous departure from our table, minus the collision with the waiter, and stumbled off to the restroom yet again. I shuffled my tight jeans down to my knees and, feeling rather relieved and more than a little tired, I actually leaned back against the toilet tank (another bit of upscale compared to other places that had only exposed piping behind their toilet seats). Fully relaxed, I let my pee flow and didn't care how long it streamed out of me.
At some point, I realized I'd stopped pissing and as I sat up straight to get some paper and wipe, I felt another bodily urge and took my time releasing that too. I don't remember hearing the restroom door open (or close), but just as I finished pooping, someone knocked on my stall door.
"Angie? It's Betty," she said, keeping her voice low.
"Uh, yeah? What's up?" I wiped my dirty, sticky bottom.
"Open the door. Let me in."
"In? In the stall?"
"Oh God, yes! C'mon, open up!"
"Is everything OK? What's going on?"
"Just, really, c'mon, open it. I'm serious."
I was so confused about what was going on. I could barely sit up straight on the commode, my brain was foggy and my head was spinning, and here was Betty wanting to come into the stall with me. Was this real? Who does this? I've gone to the bathroom together with other women before, but we don't occupy the same stall, right?
There was nothing special about these stalls. I mean, they were your typical gray bathroom stalls, open above and below, so anyone could readily smell the rank odor of what I was doing there. My defecation had turned out to be no dainty thing and it had a stink to match.
