The lady with pink pants

the lady with pink pants and i are on some kind of schedule. i ran into her three times today in the bathroom, and each time it was exactly the same. i’d enter the middle bathroom stall, look to my right and see the salmon slacks bunched up over the brown loafers. i’d hear the faucet going as i flushed. i’d step out of the stall as she disappeared out the door.

i never saw her face.

i know she works in the building next door, and that’s about all i know. i wonder if she noticed my scratched up mary janes, gray striped socks and frayed denim and looked at them in scorn. i wonder if she downs coffee every morning noon and night, if the restaurant wait staff kept filling her glass of lemonade at lunch, if she has a sipper bottle filled with sparkletts on her desk like i do. i wonder if i’ll see her tomorrow and if i’ll even know that it’s her since she probably won’t be wearing her pink pants. probably not.

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