"it's this one," she interrupts, lifting her head from the countertop, not bothering to sweep away the powder near her forearm. "men's toilets are always less crowded, aren't they?"
it doesn't seem to be an actual question, but he shrugs and smiles in vague agreement as he allows the door to swing shut behind him, the sound of the performance muffled by the thick walls. his eyes dart between the urinal and the stall, preferring the former but assuming the latter would be more polite. there's a rule against emptying your bladder during a night of drinking, a promise that the rest of the night will be spent doing the same thing, but he swears that he can hear the mostly-empty flask in his coat pocket swishing back and forth, pushing him over the edge.
"so are you a musician or what?" she asks, jerking him out of his trance. he can see that she's lifted herself onto the sink, perching herself on its edge as her bare legs dangle towards the floor. he can't imagine how she managed to climb up in what seems like cellophane wrap, and she repeats the question before he shakes his head.
"well, no, i am," he amends, his head rocking side to side, "but i'm here because of my girlfriend. harlowe montauk?" he's said the phrase before, but never in such a public way, never to a complete stranger. it tastes sweet on his tongue, an involuntary smile manifesting at the idea of her, lopsided and blissful. "she's a, um, singer."
his face feels warm but not hot, and his cheeks have not quite gone pink. not drunk, he deems himself, just happy, and he helps himself to another sip from the flask. one can always be happier.he hums what he hopes sound like a few lines of the chorus to tik tok (it doesn't), but the woman's expression doesn't shift to one of recognition, and he's left to push open the stall door, a follow-up question stopping his progress. "so what do you do, then?"
"i'm in a band."
the flask now back in its place, he steps into the stall, but her hand catches the door before it closes, round eyes peeking around the corner, then pushes it enough for her body to squeeze into the gap. "you and me - we've met before, yeah? you look familiar." he's everywhere in london, his face attached to parties or his brother or father or mother and -- "maybe i've seen you play somewhere."
he feels doubt that this is why she feels she knows his face, but it isn't impossible, and his verbal agreement ("maybe") is accompanied by a thoughtful nod. what his mouth says contradicts his thoughts: "we play a lot," he says. he's in a band. he's on the cusp of being a big deal, deserving of being at the brits in his own right.
"cool," he thinks he hears her say, but it's her hands on his belt buckle that he feels, arms wrapped around his waist. "let me help."
his laughter overflows, knowing that of anything, this is the one thing he can manage on his own, but he doesn't stop her from unbuckling it, doesn't stop her hands from slipping into his trousers or tugging them down as she kneels.
"i've always wanted to have a rockstar piss in my mouth."