She Never Knew

Twelve minutes in a stall while some guy found

his third wind at the podium. The sound

of hands politely meeting. I had locked

the bolt, sat down, and let the morning dock

somewhere quieter. Beige laminate.

The ventilation's low hum. Small, in blue

ballpoint above the holder: she never knew.

No period. The ink a little smeared—

a hand in a hurry, or a hand that feared

being caught at it. I sat with those three words.

Thought about the she. The knowing. The absurd

closeness of a stranger's private thing.

The session broke. I heard the footsteps ring

into the corridor. I flushed and left.