I can’t remember if I washed my hands or not. I made a beeline for the stalls, which were the same as the stalls in every women’s room I’d ever used in my first 17 years of life.
In fact, I didn’t see most of it as I walked in, head down and turned slightly away from the line of urinals. I looked about 14, probably, with my hair freshly cut short, my head still feeling light and buoyant after getting rid of the ponytail I’d carried through most of high school. The first time I used a men’s room, I was 17 years old.
