I Like Your Hair.
It had just opened two weeks ago, but the Christmas lights around the door and the promise of fine, French cuisine drew us in. He ordered steak tartare again and I opted for a chicken dish. We ate, drank, and generally felt quite merry.
"I need to duck into the ladies' room for a second." I said, taking my napkin from my lap and excusing myself from the table.
"Sure," he said.
I walked over to the small, two-stall bathroom, dimly lit by several lamps with gilded shades. It was like peeing in the vault of a bank only known to celebrities, or maybe to Scrooge McDuck.
As I conducted my bathroom activities, the main bathroom door swung open and in clicked a pair of ladies' heels. She leaned in towards the mirror and smoothed out her smudged eye makeup with her index finger. Then she stopped. And stared from the mirror.
Right into the stall I was hiding in.
Feeling a tad exposed, I leaned to the left to avoid her gaze, quickly finished my business, and rescued my purse from the hook on the door. She was pinning back her flyaways, still at the mirror. I rolled up my sleeves and ran the water over my hands at the sink next to her.
"I like your highlights."
Her accent was thick. French? Faux-French? Maybe German? Not New England, that's for certain.
"Thank you," I replied, the water hot on my hands.
"I like them very much. I look at them while you pee."
(My goodness. Is there an appropriate response to that?)
"Well that's very kind of you."
She brought her face next to the glass and peered into her black-lined eyes.
"I look so fan-tahs-tic." She nodded to herself. "Very fan-tahs-tic." Adjusted her hemline. "I go now."
She opened the door with a flourish - this woman who admired my hair while I peed - and strutted out into the dining room, leaving me wondering what the hell just happened.