There’s a little heart someone drew on the grout between the tiles on the wall of the men’s room, right at eye level when you’re taking a piss. It’s disconcerting. Creepy. Sort of mocking.
That’s the view I had yesterday morning as I heard the telltale ding of a text message notification. It came from the stall. A few moments passed. And then I heard the occupant emit a little sigh.
“You’re a fucking asshole, man,” he declared.