“Please tell me you didn’t park on the deck Miranda.”
“I didn’t.....I didn’t, baby. And you know why I didn’t?” Their voices fade as they pass by me. I hear their footsteps passing too, in that narrow walkway which exists as a secret path from street to parking lot between my apartment complex and the next. I’d just taken a shit and was enjoying myself, reading Paulo Freire on the toilet. There was the mild odor of my excrement in the air, and sun shone through my tiny bathroom window onto the pink bathroom tiles. I wondered if they could hear me, if they could smell me through that small, high window. How would they feel if they knew I was there? What would they think of the slim, red volume I was holding between my hands?