***
Naomi
"Hey!" I called through the bathroom door. "Are you going to be much longer?"
Silence.
"Sean!" I knocked again. "You've literally been in there for thirty minutes. I have to pee."
Nothing.
I rolled my eyes up to the roof and stared at it for a few long seconds before I walked away.
The man had a bathroom problem.
A serious one that kept him in there for over forty-five minutes a damn day, and most of the time it happened to be right when I had to pee like a motherfucker.
And with there being only one bathroom in the station, I was shit out of luck until he was done with his toilet time.
"Son of a biscuit eater," I grumbled as I walked to the living room and stared out the window with worried eyes.
I had to change my bag. I normally would do it while we were out in case someone happened to see it in the trash, but I didn't have much of a choice at this point. It was either change it or walk around with my shit slapping against my stomach.
Something I still wasn't used to even after months of having to deal with the shit. Literally.
And oh, my God. The stoma squeaks were the worst!
I'd managed to keep them secret, or quiet, by placing my crossed arms lightly over the stoma (the hole that led to my colon from the outside) but they were getting more frequent and louder by the day.
I'd even gone as far as to call my doctor back home and ask him what I should do about them, and the devil had laughed. Laughed!
With nothing else to do, I walked into my bedroom, tucked my shirt and undershirt up underneath my armpits, and gathered my supplies.
Once I was situated with all my supplies on my bed, I opened the plastic bag I planned to stuff my shit bag into, and got to work.
After trying to decide whether or not to use reusable bags, I decided on the smaller disposable bags since I didn't have time to clean the bags out, and I felt confident in my decision, even though they were on the costly side.
Also, I'd gotten more efficient at changing it over the past few months, and I even developed a little system to get the job done but I still managed to get shit dripping down my stomach despite my trying not to.
It took me ten minutes to change my bag, and when I was done, I looked at the Ziploc, wondering what in the hell I was supposed to do with it now.
The point of the Ziploc bag was to contain the smell, but that didn't mean that some didn't leak through despite my efforts.
That meant the kitchen trash was out.
The bathroom was out, too, since I hadn't heard the bathroom door open since I'd been in here.
So, with confidence that Sean would be in the shitter for another five minutes, at least, (yes I'd timed him) I opened my door, peeked out, and made a mad dash for the front door.
There was a dumpster there that would be a perfect spot to throw my trash into.
And it would've been great, too, had I not opened the door and ran smack dab into Sean's muscular chest.
It felt like hitting a brick wall.
"Fuck!" I whined, trying to disentangle myself from Sean-who'd caught me before I'd gone sprawling out on the pavement.
My hands were up by his head, the bag of poo thrown over his shoulder like a fucking shoulder bag.
And I was about to cry.
I was touching the man with my poop!
Of course, it was in a bag, but still! I was touching him with it.
Embarrassment surged through me and it took everything I had not to wrench out of his arms.
I didn't.
If I had, he would've seen what was in my hands, and that would've been awkward.
Instead, I made the hard decision to stay in his arms, and hope he didn't look over his shoulder.
"Where did you come from?" I bit my lip.
His eyes went down to my mouth, then up to my eyes, and then back again.
"I was looking for you," he said. "Was wondering if you wanted to go eat."
I released my lip and his eyes returned to mine.
"Yeah," I said breathlessly. "What's that?"
I pointed to the station with one hand.
When he turned, I threw my bag as far as I could get it, watching it land at the back of the medic.
He frowned at me once he returned my stare.
"What was what?"
He looked over his shoulder, scanning for what he'd heard land after I'd thrown it, and saw nothing.
Thank God.
"I swear I saw something," I lied. "Where do you want to go eat?"
Please don't say Taco Bell. Please don't say Taco Bell.
"Taco Bell," he said. "It's either that, or Rudy's. And we've had Rudy's three times this last week."
I frowned.
We had.
But when it was either Rudy's or Taco Bell, I chose Rudy's every time.