I try really hard to find a pattern in the two-toned tiles. As my eyes scan the slick surface of the cool mint and aqua along the floor and walls, my mind is busy attempting to make sense of things, conjure order out of chaos. Such is my nature when I escape to the bathroom of nightclub bars, head spinning with alcohol and seeking refuge from the barrage of loud thumping music and stupid men who paw at my dress hoping for a sexual escape from the emptiness of their daily lives. I lean over and put my head in my hands, elbows resting on my knees. Yes, I think I see a pattern on the floor; so subtle in its artistry, only attempting at randomness. A pair of girls enter the bathroom and a blare of bass and electronics fills the stalls momentarily. I can hear them primping themselves in front of the mirror, probably fluffing their sticky hairsprayed and gelled hair while reapplying their lipstick... "Does this zit on my forehead look nasty or what?" "Nah, it's not that bad." "I was having sex with Jeff the other night and I didn't even realize it was there until afterwards. Then I was so disgusted, I was like, ‘God, how could you have fucked me with this big shiner on my head?' He said he saw it but didn't want to embarrass me by saying anything. I was like, ‘Yeah, you could've just done me a favor and popped it while we were fucking!'" "Ew! Tina!!" Giggling. I groan inwardly and grasp a wad of toilet paper from the dispenser. I suddenly have the feeling that I've been in here too long, but I'm not anxious to go back out, either. The two girls exit the bathroom but the music is muffled by the whirling of water as I flush the toilet. I pull my tights back up and straighten my dress back down, exit the stall and wash my hands. I typically avoid looking at myself in the mirror in these situations, because that prompts the accusatory questions from my better judgement as to the purpose of my being here at all. To which I would tell myself that my two misguided but well-intentioned girlfriends dragged me here. To meet someone. To have some fun and forget about the man who left me utterly devastated and heartbroken. But as Romeo said, maybe if they or anyone could teach me how not to think they could then teach me how to forget. He's not an old blanket or a pair of pants. The replacement factor just doesn't apply here. Of course, Romeo said that pre-Juliet... but nevermind. I take a deep breath and pull the door open, step outside to meet the ambiance of loneliness and depravity. The club I step into is a jarring scene compared to the comfort womb of soft warm light and mint green tile in the bathroom. Loud music assails my ears; darkness and flickering lights envelop me; smoke, sweat and perfume offend my senses as I become just another body. Another pretty face, another moving object swaying to the beat. And all the while, as I talk to the man with the funny face and clear blue eyes, I'll think of him. I'll think of how we once came here together and scoffed at all the lonely people gathered into one lonely mass of pheromones and cologne, trying to meet someone. Trying to have fun. And I'll wonder as I always do where he is and what he's doing. Whether he has joined the lonely masses, loathing himself for being in a place like this, trying to talk to the girl with the funny face and wishing he was in the bathroom, counting tiles on the floor. Copyright 1998 Jennifer Chung All legal and moral rights reserved and asserted. Go Back