Bathroom Stalls

You’re twelve the first time you dye your hair. Red. Red as your mother’s leather couches. Red as sunburn. Red as the period you’ve just started.

You know you’ll get in trouble, but that’s why you locked the door. Dye packets litter the tile as you inexpertly run the bottle through your hair.

When it’s finished you look awful, but you’re happy. You’ve never been so excited to be so ugly.

/

You’re in Japan. You’ve worked twenty days in a row. It’s cold, your ski boots haven’t dried all the way through and you’d lost feeling in your toes earlier that morning.

You’re barricaded in a stall in the ladies restrooms. There are people waiting, complaining about the line as they peel off layers of thermals and down jackets. You can’t imagine talking to another person. You’re tired, so, so tired. The thought of meeting someone new is terrifying, but you’re late. You’ll get in trouble but a new face a new name seems insurmountable but you’re late and you’re going to be in trouble and before you know if you’re looking at the ceiling. Breathing is hard. Then impossible. It’s not the first panic attack you’ve had. It is the worst.

Your boss finds you on the floor fifteen minutes later. She’s angry, you’d cost her money. You can see her winding up for an argument, you know what you’ve done is…