I do a lot of my writing at the neighborhood watering hole. It's got a classic corner bar vibe that you don't often get in suburbia, so when I'm not writing there's a cast of local regulars with whom I can chat. You know, "where everybody knows your name", like the old TV theme song went.
For a fairly small joint, it is well-provisioned with restrooms, having three unisex one-holers.
The nicest and best-lit of the trio, which also has an old bar stool sitting in the corner that gives me a handy place to set my iPad and camera, is also the farthest from the water heater. Far enough away, in fact, that on brutally cold winter days I'll sometimes set the hot water tap running when I enter so that it'll be warm already by the time I've finished my business.
Yesterday, as I approached that bathroom door, I could see the light underneath it that usually indicates occupancy (although some people don't turn off the light when they leave) but a woman emerged just as I was arriving.
Perfect! The water would already be warm!
Except, of course, that when I finished up, I noticed that not only was the tap handle dry, the water was ice cold.
That nasty, nasty ho'. Ick.
I used the paper towel to dry my hands and to operate the doorknob.
.
