It Wasn't Me

Mid piss

I notice

That the toilet is clogged.

I shake my little pecker

And try to flush it anyway.

It floods up to the edge,

And

I panic,

And

Weigh my options.

I decide that I don’t want to go up

To the gorgeous barista,

And tell her that the toilet is clogged,

Because I am afraid that

She’ll think that it was me that clogged it.

I don’t want her thinking that I took a giant shit in there.

So I grab the plunger

And start violating the toilet.

And I am really pounding that porcelain chair,

When someone knocks on the door

And scares the shit out of me.

(No pun intended here.)

I look over my shoulder and say,

“Just a second!”

But, because I stopped paying attention for a moment,

And kept plunging away,

piss-water lept from the bowl,

And found my clothes.

“God Damnit!”

I try to dry myself off with a paper towel,

But there is piss all over me.

I go back to pounding the toilet with the plunger.

The water starts to go down.

I wipe the sweat off of my forehead,

And look down at my pants and shoes.

They were still soaked through.

I take a breath, and try to make it to my seat without being seen, or smelled.

But, as soon as I open the door

A cute little lady,

Who I know

Very minimally—Except for one long conversation here at this same coffee shop a few months ago,

And another awkward encounter at her place—

Is leaning against the wall,

Right outside the bathroom.

I freeze mid step.

“Hey.” I say.

“Hey.” She says back.

“The toilet was clogged, but it wasn’t me! I didn’t shit in there! I just took a piss! But then I tried to unclog it . . . and I got piss all over myself.” I pointed to my pants.

She took a step back from me and said,

“Er, alright.”

“It’s good to see you!”

“Yeah, you too.”

I walked away.

She walked into the bathroom.

-C.H. 7.18.23