Dear Mystery Liquid on the Floor of the Women’s Restroom in this Fine Establishment,
We’ve met before.
Last week, in fact, when I was passing through the area and set my bag into a puddle of you that was somehow temporarily obscured by the flickering fluorescent light. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize it at the time, and it wasn’t until I had hoisted the bag onto my shoulder and found that the side of my blouse (dry-clean only, if you must know) was damp, that I was able to identify the culprit.
It was you.
Sometimes you are not wet, but sticky.
Sometimes you are dry, with muddy footprints.
But mostly you are slick, and I have to negotiate each step carefully, hiking up the hems of my dress slacks.
This is curious, because the hallway outside the door is dry. The line at the counter, full of angsty patrons, is dry. Outside, on the concrete walkway and in the asphalt parking lot, it is dry.
In fact, it has not rained here for weeks, and it’s possible that it won’t rain again for months.
This leaves only a few possibilities for your origin.
But I’m going to go with bioterrorism, since it is at least slightly less icky.
Girl Who Needs Galoshes
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Paula Treick DeBoard