Throne Room

A little bit of a story, scribbled down back in Janaury. I've been meant to upload it but the usual pressures of life made me forget about it. Until now. The short sentences and dubious grammar are intentional; I felt it put the reader into the character's head. I hope that it doesn't make for difficult reading.

* * *

Seated on her throne, Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. The indignity: Peeing with someone in the neighbouring cubicle! Why couldn't the interloper have taken the end stall, the one nearest the door, the shortest distance? 

          Elizabeth held her breath. She waited, her knickers around her ankles. Still and silent.

          The other woman finished. There was a rumble from the large, circular toilet paper dispenser, followed by various rustling sounds. A thump on the partition immediately accompanied by an exclamation (Ouch!) startled Elizabeth so that she almost made a sound. A close call. Finally, after more rustling, the clunk of the cistern and the rush of water tumbling into the bowl signalled the other woman's impending departure. The door lock clicked and rasped; metal on metal complaining at the movement. The door squealed a brief objection before banging loudly on the partition. Slender heels clicked, insect-like, on the tiles.

          In her own cubicle Elizabeth waited, expecting the squeak of the tap and the hiss of hot, aerated water. Perhaps there might be a soft thump of sickly soap pumped into the palm of a hand, or the blast of the hand dryer. Instead there was a creak and a heavy bang as the toilet door was pulled open and then swung shut.

          Elizabeth breathed and relaxed. How unpleasant. Her worst fears confirmed. She imagined the woman with untidy hair, clothes by George, a cheap knock-off handbag from eBay. And stiletto heels. In the day time. She didn't even wash her hands. The woman was no-better than a pigeon in the street, a snail in the garden, a house-spider that weaves unsightly webs in corners of rooms, unclean: Elizabeth had just shared her privacy with a person of low breeding. 

          She shuddered, physically shaking the unwelcome thoughts from her mind. She rustled around in her cubicle, arranging herself before emerging. Elizabeth paused in front of the full length mirror and examined herself with a critical eye. Her loose hair curled in a frame around sharp features. Her clothes were neat and tailored. She smoothed her pencil skirt over her hips anyway. She caught a flash of red from the soles of her grey, suede, Louboutin platforms and smiled. Quality assured. She tugged at the corners of her eyes. Wrinkles. The latest potion would be required to correct them. £50 for a minuscule tube but worth the price. She reached into her Valentino clutch for her Dior 'Devilish Pink' and swept it across Botox-inflated lips. She approved what she saw with a nod, stuck her nose in the air and left the toilet. The taps remained silent. The basins were dry.

"I'm so sorry to trouble you. I just don't like to go without washing my hands." 

          A tall, slender woman, dressed in a smart business suit with hair pulled into a tight bun, passed Elizabeth. A woman in a cleaner's coverall followed behind.

          "It's alright, love. I'd have been refilling the soap later anyway." The cleaner said.

          Insect heels clicked across the tiled floor as they entered the toilet.

          "I appreciate it anyway."