The topless woman gapes at me, justifiably peeved I interrupted her Big O. Aside from disappearing into the void, I do the next best, highly logical thing: mumble a vague yet sincere apology, cover my eyes, and sprint away in the only direction possible—down a short hallway.
“This is fine. It’s all fine,” I mutter, taking refuge through the first door on the right. I slam it shut, savoring the relative coolness of the door against my searing skin.
As a nurse, I see genitals aplenty, particularly during my stint in the ER before I transferred to the neonatal ward. But making eye contact with a live human （a mega-ripped human, to be precise） in the throes of passion a mere ten feet away is a first.
When slowing my breath becomes a herculean task, I try a technique my therapist taught me. Take in your surroundings. Note everything logically, with no judgment.
I’m in a tiny, outdated bathroom. It’s white from floor to ceiling, save for a plush navy-blue towel hanging behind the door and the matching hand towel next to the sink, both probably belonging to a man with a nice, sizable— Nope. We’re not going there. Focus, Tara.
Cracked yet clean ceramic subway tiles adorn the wall in the gleaming glass shower. For a bathroom formerly shared by Scott and Trevor, two thirtysomething men, it’s impossibly clean. I run my index finger along the rim of the smooth porcelain sink. It’s spotless. Not a stray man hair or glob of dried toothpaste to be found.
Weak and weary, I park myself on the porcelain throne. I should probably commence a new search for another place to live, but the very prospect of probing the bowels of Craigslist prompts a heaving gag. Instead, I self–eye bleach to videos of baby farm animals until my feet lose all circulation.
I know I have to go out and face the music at some point. But like a coward, I delay the inevitable by FaceTiming Mel.
She answers immediately, preening her ultra-lush lash extensions. She’s a curvy influencer, like Crystal, except instead of fitness, Mel’s specialty is fashion and beauty and all things aesthetically pleasing. Today, a shimmery purple shadow sweeps across her eyelids, accentuating her dark eyes. Her contour is also on point, showcasing her bone structure. She’s so stunning, it’s frankly offensive.
Based on the floor-to-ceiling window behind her, she’s at home in her bougie apartment in the theater district. “Where the hell are you?” she asks.
“I’m hiding in my new bathroom,” I whisper.
“Why are we whispering?” She lowers her voice conspiratorially.
“Because. I just walked in on my new roommate. Naked.”
She lets out a strangled gasp and slaps a hand over her violet-painted lips. “Naked? As in, ass out?”
“Penis out,” I correct. “Actually, he was more than naked. He was boning a girl in the kitchen,” I explain, taking it upon myself to snoop in the shower.
The moment I open the hefty glass door, I’m hit with a zesty, far-too-sexy spiciness that’s surely a biohazard. I sniff the body wash to confirm the origins of the scent, and it immediately clears my airways. Cinnamon and cedarwood, according to the bottle. Next to the body wash is a basic two-in-one shampoo-and-conditioner combo.
Poking around a virtual stranger’s shower feels illicit, but technically this is my shower now. I’ve already seen this man’s nether regions, so does it really matter if I know his preferred brand of toothpaste （Colgate—Max White Expert Complete）？
“Jesus, take me.” Mel clasps a hand over her chest and pretends to faint on her chaise. She quickly rights herself, fully alert and ready to sip the proverbial tea, which she likes piping hot. “Okay, tell me everything. On a scale of Danny DeVito to Henry Cavill, how attractive is he? Spare no detail.”
“I wasn’t looking at his face.” His face was but a blur on account of his naked body, which definitely leans in favor of the Cavill side of Mel’s scale. The memory will live on forever, seared onto my retinas.
“I take it you’re gonna hide in there until the end of time?”
“Yes. I think I’ll just rot in here.” I examine the glittery soap dispenser next to the sink, which doesn’t belong among the rest of the practical, low-maintenance products. It’s labeled Toasted Vanilla Chai. This is a woman’s touch if I ever saw one. Maybe it belongs to the big-breasted, auburn-haired woman.
As Mel tells me about a time she accidently walked in on her brother doing the dirty, I swiftly move on to the medicine cabinet. Before opening it, I catch my hopeful reflection in the mirror and cringe. What was previously a perky ponytail this morning has sagged. I try tightening it to add volume, inadvertently making it worse. There’s zero volume to be had here. Each strand is dead slick to my scalp and severely pulled back, accentuating my shiny forehead. I really need to blot.
Giving up on myself entirely, I explore the cabinet. Inside is an opened packet of assorted color toothbrushes, a shaving set, a single razor, a bottle of shaving cream, Listerine mouthwash （Cool Mint） and a jumbo bottle of Tylenol.
As I pluck the bottle from the shelf to examine the expiration date （expired in July 2021）， a floorboard creaks in the hallway, right outside the door. Panicked, I fling the Tylenol back where I found it and side-shuffle away from the sink. A few beats of silence tick by before there’s a knock.
“Tara?” Trevor’s voice is gravelly and baritone. Very audiobook worthy.
“Mel, I gotta go,” I whisper, frantically ending the call before she can respond.
“You okay in there?” he asks.
“Totally fine. More than fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Yikes. I sound like Minnie Mouse on uppers. I make a point to lower my voice. “Was she your girlfriend?”
There’s a beat of silence. “No. She’s not my girlfriend. She just left, by the way.”
“Oh,” I say, mildly disappointed. It would have been nice to have another woman around, like an unofficial roommate of sorts, especially since the majority of Crystal’s and Mel’s time is devoted to their respective long-term, committed relationships and full-time thriving social media careers—both of which I lack. While I love being a book influencer on Instagram and TikTok, it’s a hobby, not a career.
There’s another extended silence before Trevor says, “Listen, I’m sorry we had to meet like that. I didn’t think you were moving in until later today. I feel like an asshole.”
I sink to the floor behind the door, noodle legs pulled to my chest. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s your apartment, technically.”
“It’s half yours now.”
“Do you regularly have sex in communal living areas?”
“Well, not anymore.” Based on his half chuckle, I picture a charming, tilted grin that could melt the panties off any given straight woman. “I swear I’ll disinfect the whole kitchen. Thoroughly.”
“Much appreciated,” I say genuinely. It’s nice knowing the surface I eat my Pop-Tarts over will be void of bodily fluids.
A few beats go by. “So, uh, are you ever gonna come out of the bathroom?”
“That depends. Are you still naked?”
“I’m fully decent, I swear.”
I press my cheek closer to the door, craving the vibrations of his voice. “I might stay in here a little longer. It’s comfortable.” This tiny space is actually kind of soothing, reminiscent of a Scandinavian spa.