Pee. Zip. Flush. Turn on running water. Rinse. Leave.
Classes are going on. Bathrooms are empty.
Why would I touch that dirty, germ-infested handle to press out that pink, foamy mush?
I have to turn off the water right after,
And open the door.
I don’t like to use soap. I don’t like to spend an extra few seconds waiting for the suds to slide suddenly off my soft hands and bubble down the drain.
If I’ve just smashed a cockroach against my palm or picked a child’s nose or dropped my three square patches of TP into the shallow toilet water and wiped my ass with the side of my hand instead, then soak my fingers in Suave and Dove all day long,
But I don’t like to use soap.
But I do use soap.
I use soap so the woman at the sink next to me doesn’t look at me funny.
I mash the big square button to the box on the wall so I’m not cringed at through the mirror.
I spend an extra six seconds flushing my sudsy palms of faint pinkness so I can’t hear their inner thoughts whisper and judge.
I’m pressured by every single person minding their own business and worried that they’ll stop, look away from their own filthiness, and gossip to themselves about how they could never do that.
And that thought will only last a second.
Only a second in their unrelated, overrated lives, irrelevant to my entire existence,
But I don’t want even that to occupy the tiniest carpet fuzz on their rushing train of thought with my abnormal act of not washing my hands with soap.