But What Does It Mean?
Yesterday, I took my riding suit into the ladies' room as I do every day. I went into the giant handicapped stall and was busy swapping my jeans for my riding pants when I realized that there were footprints.
I felt almost Robinson Crusoe-like staring at them. Footprints. In the ladies' room.
The footprints were tiny and indistinct, as though they had been made either by someone on tiptoe or a tiny little uncoordinated kid. The commode itself was clean, with a couple of drops of water on the seat (it's no surprise, as the toilets here flush with a Shakespearean vehemence - full of sound and fury and signifying nothing), but the footprints were muddy. And they were only around the commode itself, the furthest being perhaps 18 inches away. They didn't go out the door, or anywhere, really.
The only thing that keeps me from asking someone here who might be in a position to know is that I'm afraid that the truth will be much less interesting than the horrors that my mind is imagining.
I felt almost Robinson Crusoe-like staring at them. Footprints. In the ladies' room.
The footprints were tiny and indistinct, as though they had been made either by someone on tiptoe or a tiny little uncoordinated kid. The commode itself was clean, with a couple of drops of water on the seat (it's no surprise, as the toilets here flush with a Shakespearean vehemence - full of sound and fury and signifying nothing), but the footprints were muddy. And they were only around the commode itself, the furthest being perhaps 18 inches away. They didn't go out the door, or anywhere, really.
The only thing that keeps me from asking someone here who might be in a position to know is that I'm afraid that the truth will be much less interesting than the horrors that my mind is imagining.
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