Suzanne got up and went back to the bathroom. She put her ear up against its heavy door and held her breath, straining to catch any noises coming from inside. It was quiet. She knocked. She was going to be late for work. It was almost ten and it would take her at least forty-five minutes to get to Melrose.

She kicked the door. It did nothing but hurt her foot. She looked down and saw a dull, chalky imprint on the tip of her new Jimmy Choo suede boots that had cost her over two weeks worth of pay. Suzanne bent over and desperately rubbed at the mark with the tips of her fingers, being careful not to scratch her manicure.

Just then she heard a moan coming from inside the bathroom.

Desperate for help, she rushed into the kitchen. The staff stopped their work and stared.

“Can someone get T? I need to talk to him. It’s an emergency.”

A prep cook with a missing front tooth and a red scar down the side of his face nodded, and went into the back.

A few moments later a towering black man with sweat circles leaking out from under the armpits of his polyester shirt stood wheezing, as if the walk from his office to the kitchen was the cardiovascular equivalent of running a 10K race.

“Yes?” asked the manager.

“Someone’s hogging the bathroom, T,” said Suzanne.

“And?”

“And I need to use it!”

“Well, I don’t--.”

“They’ve been in there for over a half an hour! There’s already a line.” Suzanne knew T wouldn’t take action unless the situation was dire, “There’re about five old people who’ve been drinking, like, Metamucil and coffee all morning. And they look like they’re gonna explode!”