I left the bottle of dish soap at the kitchen sink and rushed into the restroom. Into a stall. Then I latched the lock and pressed my ear to the wall closest to the kitchen. To listen.
Nothing at first. The seconds passed. Still nothing. Then, at last, footsteps on the floor—light, steady. They stopped. A faint rustle. A zipper. One, two, three, four snaps. Shoes shifting. Silence.
Finally, a soft pop.
The water came next, a thin stream. Faint wet sounds, slow strokes. A light tap—plastic on metal. A deeper, steadier rub. A clink—glass on metal. The water stopped.
A soft click.