Cheryl, John, John, Cheryl.

If not for the fact that chance meetings between strangers rarely occur in your master bathroom, you’d wonder if the two people in this story knew each other. On the eve of prime time, this fine March evening, Cheryl was slaving away in the bathroom. She left the bathroom running at full impulse power, carrying an armful of cleaning supplies. Upon her departure, yours truly asked her if she was done in the bathroom. “No,” she replied. “Do you have to go?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “Well if you just cleaned up in there and you don’t have to ‘go’ then what do you need the bathroom for?” I asked. “How can you see out of the mirrors in there?” she asked. “Am I missing something?” I replied – keeping up with the Socratic tone of the conversation. “There are spots all over the mirrors, haven’t you noticed?” she asked, returning to the bathroom with more powerful cleaning supplies. “I didn’t know there were any,” I replied – dropping weak the Socratic guise once and for all. “They are all over the mirrors, doesn’t it bother you?” she asked.

Cheryl, John, John, Cheryl.