Dirty Chorus

1. Noah

Noah

“Ihave a boyfriend,” she says.

Her thready denim shorts and black panties sit at her ankles as she takes a piss.

I’m frozen, nearly dropping the bucket of cleaning supplies.

Her thick lashes flutter, and her doe-grey eyes glare at me like a predator about to possess my soul.

I should probably slam the hanging bathroom stall door shut, apologize, or shield my eyes and stare at the grimy tiles I need to mop, but she has that Sanford king-size Sharpie in a tripod grip.

And I’ve been looking for the girl vandalizing the bathroom.

For three months straight, I’ve lugged gallons worth of rubbing alcohol and a cheap cleaning cloth to wash off all the graffiti, and it’s gotten so bad I’ve repainted twice.

I hate to admit it, but I’d rather walk into this bathroom asking why everything is wet.

I want to bitch and moan that the counter is soaked with hand soap.

I’m hoping for puddles and water dripping from the ceiling, but no.

I’m sitting on top of the toilet seat, scrubbing away the random bathroom tips, the profanity, and calling out all the hypocrites who come here for church services.

Now I caught this pretty little thing red-handed, with the marker fumigating the entire bathroom. There’s no care in the world, just rosy cheeks and pearly whites smiling at me.

This time, she drew a cartoon version of the Lord and Savior with a smirk, holding his junk, peeing on the word sin.

“Umm, hello?” She snaps her fingers at me. “Did you not hear me the first time?” She smacks her pink gum together with her eyes rolling.

“So you’re the one drawing all over the stalls?” I ask.

She scoffs, then says, “Seriously?” She blows the biggest pink bubble. It makes a quiet pop before her tongue gathers it all back together, and she smacks the gum again.

I lick my lips. I’ve been standing here for too long. “Yes, seriously!”

“Why are you still standing there?”

“Because I’m the one cleaning the stall.” I point to the bucket in my hand and drop it to the floor.

“I have a boyfriend.” There she goes again.

“Do you think I care?”

“I get it. You saw me in service once, and you were too nervous to talk to me, so you went to Dollar General and bought all these cleaning supplies so you could talk to me. Regardless, I have a boyfriend.”

“Do I look nervous to you?” I deadpan.

She giggles, “Uhh... yeah, you do.” She pops the cap back onto the marker and slides it into the side pocket of her purse lying on the floor.

Here is your chance. Tell her off, like all the times you practiced while cleaning the mess she left in the bathroom.

“Well, get it over with.” She paws at the toilet paper like a cat, gathering several sheets, swirling them around her fingers without a care in the world, and I falter.

“Get what over with?” I ask, watching her lift one ass cheek as she wipes.

“Are you special or something?” She stands up, shimmies her panties up, and buttons her shorts. “If you want my number, just ask me.”

“I thought you had a boyfriend?”

She twirls around, using her foot to kick the handle of the toilet to flush, and the bathroom is silent other than the gurgling water and the low hiss of it refilling.

“Do you want my number or not?” She tosses her purse over her shoulder and crosses her arms.

“I have a girlfriend...” I say. It’s not a hundred percent true. I sort of have a fling with a girl I’m trying to escape from, but at least I can throw something back in her face.

She tilts her head to the side and smiles, exposing two dimples.

“Really?” She blows out another enormous bubble and slides past me to the sinks. “Bummer. You’re kinda cute.” The purse plops onto the counter as she glances at me through the mirror.

Shit. I’ve never been a good liar, and she’s actually pretty.

It’s a type of pretty that’s haunting. The girl has high, rosy cheekbones and naturally full lips.

It's not like I’m interested in her or anything.

But then again, I’m standing unnaturally still like a creep as she ruffles her long curly black hair, letting it tumble over her shoulder, and it makes her foxy grey eyes pop.

There’s a good chance I’m stereotypical, but her energy screams she breaks hearts for a living, and that’s a scary type of pretty because it’s hearts like mine she’d destroy.

Me? Well... I’m a laughingstock in the mirror.

I belong on the cover of a Hot Topic magazine.

I look like the dude at a skate park selling weed with the long-ass uncombed hair and it doesn't help that I can’t grow a beard worth shit.

I can get girls. That’s not a problem. Last week, I had a blonde groupie beg me to rip open her corset, straddling me in a chair backstage. What was her name? Shit. I forgot.

But let’s face it, trouble here wouldn’t take a second look at me. I’m not her type. Just by looking at her, she’s into the expensive lipstick, pink nails, and high heels. Chemical trails of vanilla and roses waft off her. She fits the definition of a red flag.

A guy with nothing but black clothing in his closet, ink on his skin, who screams lyrics into a mic probably isn’t her vibe.

“What’s your name?” she asks, pumping the soap dispenser. It drips all over the counter and I grimace.

“What’s yours? Trouble?”

Through the mirror, she bites her bottom lip and uses a palm to turn on the faucet. She tosses her curls over her shoulders, scrubbing away.

“You’re funny.” The black crochet halter top gives me a sneak peek of her cleavage, and sweat peppers my forehead.

“My name is Charlie, actually.” She finishes washing her hands and uses her shorts to dry them off.

I didn’t realize “Sunday’s Best” turned into booty shorts and a top that made me stare a little longer than I wanted.

Then again, it’s a Wednesday night, and most people coming in are here for Bible Study classes.

My sneakers squeak against the damp floor as I step forward. She stands still. Her eyes blink as I inch closer until I’m right in front of her. I grasp the little silver heart charm on her necklace with a toggle clasp. “A boy’s name? Interesting.”

“Ha, ha. Cute. What’s yours?” She smacks my hand away and grips her purse tighter.

“Noah...”

She laughs and digs around in her purse. “Oh, built any arks recently?”

“Cute. But you should probably go into confession and admit you’re vandalizing the church.”

“You’re the one staring at me half-naked. You need it more than I do.” The king-size Sharpie reappears as she bites on the cap, yanking it off. She grabs my palm, scribbling numbers down and says, “Call me sometime.”

“But you have a boyfriend.”

“I’ll see you around.” She puts the marker back into her purse and proceeds to wiggle her fingers as she struts out of the bathroom, the heavy metal door slamming behind her.