I’m stuck at a urinal.
The dark matter expelling from my anteater stinks like vodka, or
at least the smell I associate with vodka. A smell wedged somewhere between
sour milk and the fart of a child who hasn’t yet moved on to solids. It’s
entirely illogical, but so is sleeping with a kitchen knife under your pillow
on lonely nights, or buying a People
magazine from a service station at 4am with money you could have spent on a
Paddle Pop.
So my urine is spilling and swirling down four holes that look as
ominous as the pursed rear of a stray cat. It’s spilling and splashing and
swirling and creating a sort of white wash. It reminds me of long summers body boarding
in Merimbula. Being driven into the shoreline over and over until it was time
to retrieve a Vegemite sandwich and juice box from the esky. Sucking on the
straw until it made a slurping sound, then continuing to suck until being
scolded and reminded of the dangers of going beyond the yellow flags. Cubba, don’t go past the yellow flags. And
stop that slurping noise!
The beautiful memory doesn’t stay for long, quickly receding back
into my ocean-brain. Back into vast amounts of water, filled with dangerous
sharks and horny dolphins. Dolphins that pack-raped their own, practicing
Japanese wax torture on the weak, before expelling their own fluids; a white
wash synchronised with my own.
Look down. Some of the dark matter has, in all the chaos of spilling and
swirling, ricocheted onto my khaki pants. The urine bullets are dark and
noticeable, like a Batman symbol in the clear night sky. I bet this never
happens to the Illuminati.
Calm. If people in the restaurant stare tell them you’re a descendent
of the Tupi Indian, an extremely hygienic people. Then further explain how the
Tupi washed 12 times a day, and burnt their dead, then crushed their bones into
dust and blew them across a –
I catch myself and laugh at the ridiculousness of my standing
there.
How long have I been here? I mumble.
I turn to my right to find a proper gentleman looking at me as if
I were the first woman he’d seen naked. He doesn’t answer my question. Instead,
he zips, bypasses the hand basin and pulls on the door. A roar of laughter and
conversation and orders being shouted inside the restaurant echoes around the bathroom
for a few moments and then disappears, leaving me with my thoughts again.
A new man enters and I apologise in advance without even beginning
to explain.
I zip, bypass the hand basin and burst back into the roar of
conversation and laughter and orders being shouted.
As I sit down at the table for two, her hand finds my stained
thigh. Our eyes are wide in the darkness of the fancy sushi bar, and I realise
I’ve found the only girl who may begin to comprehend the trauma of pissing on
your pants. One of my tribe, a Tupi.
