It was one of those public restrooms. You know the type. The type where you don’t want to touch any surface. Walking amongst the sticky tile, the fluorescent light flickering, casting off a pale grotesque spectrum. The only bright part of your stay is the writings on the wall as you use the urinal that has not been flushed for quite a few uses. Hair, gum and other stomach wrenching matter is caught in the trap. You don’t want to wash your hands, trusting the germs on your genitalia to be less harmful than anything in this breeding ground for filth. I bet even the soap is a cocktail of contagions.

The moist sound of an empty colon can be heard from the barred stall door. The stench of decaying matter, what once smelled of elegant feasts, leaks through underneath, reaching through every corner of the restroom. Your stay is a very short one.