Rhiannon raised her arms to squeeze past a line of people making a beeline for their abandoned barstools. “I have to get out before you can get in,” she muttered and was relieved to emerge from the crowd into the less populated seating area. She felt herself drawn to the same table as Valerie had been (six chairs, four people) but traversed the room, skirting between the clusters of upholstered chairs. The lavatories nestled in the farthest wall of the lounge with an anterior room to buffer any noise from flushing toilets. The area was poorly illuminated to lend privacy to those patrons using the facilities. Left hand men’s. Right hand women’s.

She waggled her left hand at Valerie – “Oops.” – and pushed on the door.

Inside, the room was clean and sleek. A black marble countertop ran the length of one wall. Across from it, a row of porcelain urinals with chrome trimmings and a single stall. Rhiannon felt a current of cool air grace her shoulders as the door sucked shut behind them. She opened her mouth to say something off color about roasted weenies to Valerie, but stopped when she heard it.

A little snick.

A scuffing shoe.

Silence.