Deborah was all hair and glasses and bracelets and perfume. Her mane was all curly frills, which defied gravity as if charged by a Tesla coil and which seemed to shimmer in color from an auburn brown to a lemon yellow. Her glasses were stylistic to a fault, with dark rims that were almost as thick as the lenses they held. A myriad of cheap plastic clattered from her elbows to her wrist as she stepped out of the bathroom door and reached down to zip up her pants. The stinging aroma of antiseptic flora followed her, and I knew from experience that this scent came from her armpits rather than the restroom interior.
"Practicing your aim?" I quipped, annoyed to find her exiting the mens' side of the unisex bathrooms.
"Go fuck yourself, Dilbert," she casually replied.
"Why don't you use the stalls in the other bathroom? They are so much nicer in the other room." I tried to sound casual, but the stress of the morning had me wound pretty tight.
"Go fuck yourself," she said again, then turned down the hall, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
