How to Talk to a Widower

floor and come to a stop in front of my stall door. Through the crack, I can see a flash of red hair. “Am I coming in, or are you coming out?” she says.
    “Laney,” I say. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m seizing the opportunity.”
    “Someone’s going to come.”
    “Then you’d better let me in.”
    When I open the stall door she steps in, pulling it closed behind her and locking it. She turns to face me, her cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. “Why won’t you return my calls?”
    I look at her, wondering how to calm her down, terrified of setting her off. “I’ve been in a bad place,” I say.
    “I thought we were friends, Doug. Whatever else we were, I thought we were friends. I cared about you. You fucked me and left. You made me feel like a whore.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
    “What happened? Is it that girl outside?”
    “No. It has nothing to do with her.”
    “So what was it? You think I don’t know that you’re dating? The whole town knows that you’re dating. I have to hear about it everywhere I go, everyone telling me who they think we should fix you up with. And I just smile and nod, like the thought of you with someone else doesn’t kill me. Last week you were making love to me, and now you’re having dinner with women you barely know and I have to chase you down in the men’s bathroom. I hate that you’re making me this person. Don’t I mean anything to you?”
    “Of course you do, but really, what the hell are we even doing? It can’t lead anywhere.”
    She steps closer to me, so that we’re practically touching in the narrow confines of the stall. “I love you,” she says, and suddenly there are tears balanced precariously on the rims of her eyes, poised to fall. “I know I said I wouldn’t, but I do.”
    “Laney,” I say, reaching for her arm. “You’re married.”
    “That didn’t stop you before.”
    “It’s stopping me now.”
    “I don’t have to be married.”
    I shake my head. “Don’t.”
    “I was going to leave him eventually anyway.”
    “That may be, but you can’t do it for me. I’m not a good bet.”
    “So you can sleep with me but you can’t have a relationship with me.”
    “I can’t sleep with you or have a relationship with you.”
    “You used me.”
    “You used me too.”
    And now the tears hit critical mass and fall, streaming darkly down her face like twin exhaust lines, and there’s nothing to do but catch them gently with my thumbs, a gesture she mistakes for an invitation, pressing herself against me and wrapping her arms around my waist, her fingers rubbing the small of my back. “Doug,” she says, nuzzling me.
    The bathroom door opens and we freeze in the stall like hiding children, holding our breaths as footsteps approach the urinals. Laney throws her arms around my shoulders, hoisting herself off the floor to rest her feet on the toilet seat, and we remain absolutely still, listening to the hissing splash of urine against the porcelain. And then Laney puts her tongue on the back of my earlobe and pulls it between her teeth. “Doug,” she whispers, her breath hot and moist in my ear. I lean my head away from her, but it’s a bathroom stall and there’s really nowhere to go. She opens her mouth, running her lips slowly down my jaw, her hand sliding down my stomach and past my belt, rubbing and grabbing at my crotch. I grab her hand to pull it up and she struggles against me, smiling like it’s a game, so I twist it and pull it behind her back, which has the unintended effect of pressing her body harder against mine, and she leans down and starts kissing my neck. “You know you want this,” she whispers. The urinal flushes, and there’s a quick spray of sink water, and then the bathroom door opens and shuts. I exhale and twist my body fiercely to get Laney off of me, and her foot slides off the seat and into the toilet with a splash. “Shit!” she cries, pulling her foot out, spraying my pant leg.
    “Fuck!” I say, and we pour out of the stall.
    “Oh my God!” Laney says, shaking her foot in the air, hobbling erratically across the bathroom. “My foot is soaked.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    She looks at me and then sighs deeply. “Serves me right, I guess.” And just like that, the fight is out of her eyes, and she leans against the wall, looking sad and small and defeated, which of course, makes me feel like shit.
    “Listen,” I say.
    “Please, don’t. This is already humiliating enough.”