Ladies’ room

"Be right back," you say, sliding your chair back. "Restroom."

Janelle nods, her knee lifting away from yours for the first time since you sat down. The absence feels strange—like a patch of cool air where warmth had been.

You navigate through the patio door, past the bar where a bartender with sleeve tattoos is mixing something amber, and spot the hallway with the restroom signs. The women's room is on the left. A simple wooden door with a painted flower—some kind of lotus—above a brass handle.

This is it.

You push through.

The restroom is small—three stalls, a counter with two sinks, warm lighting from a fixture shaped like a mason jar. It smells like lavender soap and something faintly citrus. A woman in her thirties with a pixie cut is washing her hands at the far sink, her purse balanced on the counter. She glances at you in the mirror, gives a brief half-smile of acknowledgment, and leaves without a second look.

You stand there for a moment. Just breathing.

That's it. That's all that happened. I walked in. She didn't scream. She didn't stare. She just... saw another woman.

You move to the mirror, setting your crossbody bag on the counter. The face looking back at you is familiar now—the smoky eyeshadow holding up despite the afternoon, the smudged liner that somehow looks intentional, the sheer peach lip tint faded to something natural. Your hair has loosened from the bun, face-framing pieces falling across your cheekbones. The sage jacket collar brushes your jaw.

You lean closer. Check for smudges. Adjust the claw clip at your nape, twisting a loose section back into place. Your fingers find the small gold hoops in your ears—still there, still catching light.

First time using a public women's restroom. And it was... nothing. Completely nothing.

You grip the edge of the counter. Something tight in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't know you'd been carrying since Wednesday. Since LUXE first dressed you. Since you walked into town in a pencil skirt and heels and the pharmacy woman called you sweetheart.

You'd been bracing for something every time. Every public space. Every interaction. Waiting for the wrong glance, the confused double-take, the excuse me, sir? that never came.

Because there's nothing to catch. Because I look like I belong here.

The door opens behind you. Two women enter—mid-twenties, one in a sundress, one in jeans and a flannel—chatting about someone named Derek who apparently said something stupid at brunch. The sundress woman takes the stall nearest the door. The flannel woman steps up to the sink beside you, pulls out a compact, and starts touching up her eyeliner.

"God, I love this lighting," she says to no one in particular, then looks at you. "Right? It's like they actually want us to look good."

"Yeah," you manage. "It's really flattering."

"I'm Bridget, by the way. We're here for trivia. You playing?"

"Maybe. My friends are out on the patio."

"Cool. Fair warning—the science round is brutal. Last week they asked about the composition of Jupiter's atmosphere and I wrote 'big and gassy' which is technically correct but not what they wanted." She grins, snaps her compact shut. "Good luck out there."

She leaves. You're alone again.

You look at yourself one more time. The girl in the mirror looks steady. A little windblown. A little nervous around the eyes. But steady.

You did it. You used the women's restroom at a bar and a stranger made small talk with you about lighting and trivia. The world didn't end.

You take a breath, smooth your jacket, and head back out to the patio where loaded nachos and your friends are waiting.