No New Swears
The bathroom door stood ajar. A sliver of light came from within. Two librarians stood staring. I was on the right, holding a clipboard in my hand. Brenda stood on my left taking heavy breaths.
I said, "You ready for this?"
"Fuck no," Brenda said.
She stepped forward and rapped on the door. The sound echoed around the tile and the porcelain. She said, "Librarians coming in."
When no one answered, Brenda raised her foot and kicked. The door crashed inward. A small doorstop caught it before it hit the wall. It bounced back a bit, but Brenda put out a hand. She gestured me in with a turn of her head.
I held my breath.
The room stank. Disinfectant and human matter clawed at my nostrils. I began checking things off the list on the paper. Turned on the sink. Checked the levels of soap and tissue. Flushed both toilets and the urinal. Made sure the cake was whole.
The process took less than five minutes. Checking the walls ate up most of the time. I had to compare the graffiti from last time with the graffiti now. No new swears. No phone numbers or internet handles. No ingredients for making death machines.
I ran from the room. Brenda let go of the door. It swung closed, bouncing a little as it closed. The sliver of light came back.
The two of us breathed deep. We wiped out our watery eyes. We thanked the spirits for another job well done.
"Next Monday?" Brenda said.
I agreed.