Dear Person I’m Sharing a Bathroom With,

           How’s your day going? How’s the weather? How’s work? Please don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me.
           I hope I don’t have to open my mouth to ask you anything, and I hope you don’t see the way my pants don’t bulge like yours does, and most of all, I wish you weren’t here with me. I wish I weren’t here with you.
           I thought I had timed it out correctly, thought I had waited until every last person had left before I entered. But maybe you were taking too long or maybe you walked in after me and now we’re stuck here together. You don’t know this, of course, all you hear is the opening of the bathroom door or perhaps my boots stomping against the tile. All I hear is my heart trying to crawl up my esophagus.
           There are eyes in every mirror and the water left around the sink and in between the stalls and they all see that I’m not supposed to be here. Every single door is made of glass and they all watch as I sit down to piss because I’ll pee on myself if I try using my over-priced packer.
           I wonder, if you knew, what you would do. Would you give me the silent nod of acknowledgement, the shared look of exhaustion, the matching white-knuckle grip on the faucet as we stare down at our soapy hands like nothing else exists? Would you kick me out, report me to the state, get me labelled as a sex offender? Would you cost me my job or my livelihood or my life?
           When I worked on campus, there were tampons and pads in the men’s restrooms. I found out they added them specifically for me when I transitioned. Someone I know campaigned to get them removed, calling it a waste of funding because no one would be needing them. Maybe you’d do the same. I don’t know.
           I do know that I’m tired and it’s been a long day and I’ve consumed a lot of liquids. If you could hurry up and finish your business so I can pee in private I’d appreciate it.
           Thanks.