Loosong

a short story

Miss Lourdes Smith spent her late twenties working reception, smiling and directing and assisting to the point of agitation. She was not an overtly friendly individual, not by nature, thus the job proved straining to her; alas, she appreciated paying her bills in a timely manner. She was the sort of woman who always took the stairs if she was required in the upstairs office because “exercise is important, especially now”, the sort to avoid her dinner because she’d eaten an unhealthy lunch, the sort to get nothing finished at home and so projects must be taken elsewhere for completion, the sort to treasure her only friend entirely because having to entertain two or more human beings might have killed her. The most important thing in her heart was her cat, and she was determined to go when his time was up. She figured they had about nine or ten years left.

	On February second Miss Smith sat at her desk and peered at the clock on the wall. It was 10:07am. It was a slow day, a simple day, and so she was relaxed, sitting back in her chair. Her coffee looked warm and it smelled of hazelnut. That brought to her a sense of wellbeing. One of the upstairs managers descended from the elevator and said to her, “Good morning, Miss Smith,” to which she nodded and replied, “Good morning, please call me Lourdes”. The man did not hear her and would call her Miss Smith again after lunch.

	During her lunch break Lourdes sipped on both her water and her iced coffee (she always purchased an iced coffee to follow the regular) and smoked two cigarettes. Under normal circumstances she would only allow herself one cigarette, but as the day was leisurely she felt herself in need of the stimulation. When she returned to her desk she heated up a breakfast burrito she’d forgotten to eat during the appropriate hour. It was then that her positive disposition began to shift.

	First it was the before mentioned man referring to her again as “Miss Smith”. Then she burnt her tongue on the cheese inside her burrito. Directly after that she spilt her water atop her chest as she was trying to alleviate the pain of her tongue. Finally, she rubbed a tear from her eye and subsequently stung her eye because it was the same finger she’d held two cigarettes with. If she could, that would have been the moment to go home. Her day was ruined. She needed to retreat to the restroom to console herself, to pull herself together, to get through the rest of those wretched hours. It also happened that she needed to pee. 

	The restroom smelled of flushed excrement. Lourdes wrinkled her nose as she slipped into a stall she supposed was furthest from the stench. She’d always hated public toilets, more so than most, she believed. She thought anyone entering any sort of public space where bowels are involved who doesn’t feel an immediate sense of disgust to be a fool, disgusting themselves for their apathy. It should bother everyone upon entry, especially seeing as there was no choice in the matter. She ruminated that sentiment as she sat down on the toilet.

        She then heard a faint voice as it began to sing. She assumed it was coming from the stall next to her by how she could feel the diction in her own throat. It was a pleasant sound and for once she did not feel bothered by an intrusion. In fact, she felt that the trickle coming from her was the issue, and perhaps the vocalist should raise her volume to overpower it.

        The lyrics were simple and the melody lilting, but she was sure the woman was singing the harmony of whatever song it was. She recognized the manner from her days as an alto in high school. It was holy, and she felt herself rectified. She tried to pee small. She feared the song would cease if she flushed, and she was right. No matter, it was time to wash her hands and return to her desk. The day was no longer lost.

	She was drying her hands when someone stepped up beside where she stood to wash their own hands. She cursed herself for not glancing over to see which stall was emptied, but then she supposed it didn’t matter, because it seemed as though they were the only two in attendance. She looked at the other as she threw away her paper towel wad.

	“What were you singing?” she asked.

	“I wasn’t singing,” the woman replied, grabbing her own towels to wad.

	Lourdes was immediately perplexed. It had to have been her who was singing, there was no one else there. She wondered why the woman would lie, so obviously lie. As she left the restroom she wondered whether the woman was just a liar or if she was bashful, if she was evil or couldn’t stand being perceived, if she was mistaken in thinking she was alone or if she was clinically insane. The situation equally fascinated and angered her. The remedy was waning.

	The rest of Lourdes’ day passed. She went home and had dinner and called her sister and spent the remaining evening engrossed in a book that was highly recommended by the online literature gurus. She wasn’t enjoying it very much. She thought of the singing when she went to bed that night. 

	After that the rest of Lourdes’ life passed. She remained a receptionist for a few more years until finally she was able to interview for an upstairs position. She quit taking the stairs and she also quit smoking. She never married but she attended three weddings in her lifetime, two of them as her sister’s maid of honor. She never finished that book, but she read plenty of others to make up for the grievance, so she forgave herself. She recommended it to someone but never followed up to see if they liked it or not. She developed an allergy to red meat. She found out that woman’s name, which was Mrs. Nadia Torres, and she discovered that Mrs. Torres was a part of her church’s choir—how odd of her to lie! She thought of the encounter often, at least twice a week, consistent until her death.

        Nine years after hearing that latrine siren Lourdes’ cat died of kidney failure. She had him cremated so that she could absorb his ashes before taking the pills. She never knew that the woman told the truth in the restroom. She never considered that perhaps the bizarre made an appearance within the mundane that day, that there was, for a moment, a visitant who liked to sing.