There are men in the men’s room.
Can I admit something to you? I’ve never been to the men’s room at work. Ever. Not once. I’m not bashful, and I do have to go. But I’ve never been able to find it.
Until today. I think.
About two doors down from the Yalper’s office, there’s a door that looks like a storage closet. There’s a brass plaque on the door that reads “Men” in black Serifs.
But I’m not sure if it’s actually a bathroom. When I tried the door, it opened to a closet full of men, cramped, standing shoulder to shoulder in darkness. One was smoking a cigar. Another was squinting at a newspaper.
“Is this the men’s room?” I asked.
“Yes, do you need anything?” said the man with the cigar.
“No, just checking.” I said.
I returned to my desk and peed in the trash bin. Change that, T—, you bum.
Like what you read? There’s more.
“Morning coffee” is a serial fiction series, served fresh daily. So far, we’ve covered rubberneckers, co-workers, cubicle stains, office plants, desk trophies, conspiracies, secret organizations, pocket dimensions, black holes, and impending, inevitable doom. And that’s just the beginning.
Where should we go next? Let me know in the comment section below.