I Caught You Pooping:
An Open Letter To The Oddly Attractive Girl From The Corner Cubicle

Look,

It happens.  I don’t know why I feel embarrassed about it.  I mean, after all it should be you that feels the sweet kiss of shame, right?  You did the “oh crap” double-take upon exiting the single occupancy unisex bathroom  at the end of the hall.  It was you, after all, that averted your eyes and shimmied your age-slightly-innappropriate-clad self past me in the narrow hallway.

So why do I feel disgrace?

I tried the handle, it was locked.  It’s not like I stormed in on you in a cold-sweat frenzy.  I jiggled the handle once, sighed, and leaned up against the wall of the hallway.  This is acceptable behavior, is it not?  We are adults, I did the adult thing: I leaned against the wall, took out my smart phone and checked up on the status updates of my pregnant ex-girlfriends.  I implore you to understand this: I had no way of knowing that you were in there doing anything other than passing your water.  How could I?

Perhaps there is an unwritten rule I am not privy to (I have made a pun there, I’m not proud of that).  Perhaps I should have returned to my desk in our shared work space, returned to the task at hand and waited patiently for my turn.  But that little one that sits next to the water cooler is constantly peeing.  How could I guarantee that my space in line would be preserved?

So I waited: shifting from side to side like my father taught me to do in Tai Chi class, making sure that I wouldn’t be locked into place in case of I-don’t-know-what.  There was a day-time Yankee game.  There was a flood in Asia.  A man was caught smoking on a flight from Buenos Aires to Los Angeles.  Stock in Apple was down, then up, then down again.  I checked the stock market!

Might I suggest a higher fiber diet.  I have noticed, parenthetically, you do take-out from the place around the corner near that other place with the watery coffee.  You should try their tossed salads, quite satisfying for a very reasonable price.

I will never suggest that, though.  Not to your face.  Not since the handle jiggled, the lock unclasped, the door swung open and our eyes met.

We have shared an elevator and made strained but swell small talk.  We laughed at the uniquely humiliating sound that an empty pump-top coffee pot makes when you try to give it one more squeeze, milking out a last caffeinated drop.  We have nodded a collegial “good day to you” dozens of times.  I don’t know your name.  I don’t even know what you do.  And yet our eyes met as you emerged from the bathroom, and I knew that we’d never speak again.

Now I breath deep before opening the door to our shared space.  I wear sunglasses and headphones, bobbing my head to an imagined beat just to avoid our shared shame.  I play-act phone calls on the way to the elevator.  I read magazines while avoiding your cubicle.

I caught you pooping.  And now everything’s changed.

Forgive me if you can.  I can never forgive myself.

Sincerely,

Aaron – The guy that works for that other guy.