Going Home

I'm sure I've locked the door. I always lock the door. But there she is, so it seems I didn't quite. Over the rhythm of the train she came in quiet. I only looked up when the door snicked closed. The surprise of her knocked me out of my squat over the wet toilet seat, my thighs sliding across plastic.

"So. Sorry." she says. "It just slid open. I had no. Idea."

But her eyes are too wide, too hungry, trained too hard on where my skirt ends at the top of my meaty thighs.

I have one split second to decide how this will go.

"No," I say. "I'm sure you didn't."

I open my legs, turn to take some toilet paper. Pull two sheets off. I open my legs wider. My skirt slides further up. I can feel the cool air in the bathroom swirling over my naked cunt.

I fold the paper squares over. Once. Twice. Spread my lips to make sure I can get all the piss.

In the mirror I can see her, with one hand up her shirt, pinching a nipple, the other one working in her pants. She leans against the wall. She watches me through her eyelashes. Breath catching in her chest, hands fast.