“No.”

It’s the simplest answer. “No.”

Incredulity duly radiates from Ally’s strained visage. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” She may have intended this as fighting talk, firm words from a firm platform, but the effect was undercut by the desperation that now so visibly coursed through her naked body, from the weight shuffling from heel to toe and back again on two unstable pegs, to her hands darting defensively to her midsection, to the hurried, almost pleading manner in which her question was delivered. You’ve never really seen an adult on the verge of involuntarily relieving themselves, but you very much hope you are about to, and imagine this is what it looks like.

“I mean I won’t let you put on any clothes. You can leave as God made you, or…” you gesture to the floor.

“Oh come on Sandy,” she protests, urgently. Meanwhile, and still tremulous, she surveys her options one last time, looking to the door, then quickly at her navel as though reminding herself of her nudity, and then to the corner as if to ask herself, ‘Could I really?’ Answering her own question, she utters a “fuck you” and darts towards the door. Her hand is on its handle as voices, deep and indistinct, appear behind it.

“Sounds like someone’s in the corridor,” you whisper.

The tension on her face has already reached a new peak as she whispers angrily back, male voices still bouncing in from outside the room, “Then give me my bloody clothes.”

You shake your head. “The corner’s still there, if you’re chicken.”

“Chicken?” she hisses back. “You think I’m chicken for not flashing my…oh…” and her complaint is broken by another hissing sound. Her eyes, still fixed on yours, open wide with shock, before (like yours) dropping to the floor beneath her, onto which she is suddenly firing a thick salvo of urine. Somehow, despite all of her physical efforts at containment, she finds herself wide open, her feet planted apart, squatting slightly with her weight on her heels; as the puddle reaches her toes, she brings her arms back down across her crotch as if appealing to its better nature, but none is to be found, as the mess beneath her grows uncontrollably, its bitter smell now reaching you.

“Oh shit,” you react, reminding yourself to keep quiet though the voices outside appear to be no more, “you’re actually peeing.” It’s a dumb comment, but one provoked by the enormity of this moment suddenly hitting you: you are equal parts aroused (your manhood inescapably, and comically, upright towards Ally, disgusted by the volume of human waste flooding a section of your room, guilty at your role in causing this catastrophe, and nervous as to what Ally will do in return. You go to fetch a towel, and sweep up her clothes while you’re at it. After you have, you see the episode is finally ending, only droplets down the inside of your girlfriend’s thighs remaining as she tiptoes away from the wet patch on the ground, shaking the moisture from her soles, staring abashedly down and away. As you hand her the bundle, you say, “Hey, don’t worry, this was my fault. I’ll clean up. You just go clean up, and we’ll talk later.” And so, a few moments later, a clothed Ally wordlessly departs the room.