Nineteen questions compel me to wrap up the rest of my sandwich, throw my half-full latte away, and walk with confidence toward the restrooms, hands shaking from too much caffeine. So what if, in my rush out of the house, I’d forgotten to change out of my yoga pants and torn t-shirt?

I look down. I’m wearing two different navy shoes. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except one of them is open-toed.

Whatever. I am fine. This is my last shop of the day. So what if I look like something out of People of Walmart?

Thank goodness Mr. Omelet Cashmere Jacket is gone. He didn’t even look at me, which is fine. (Not really, but…). Living in my own head has its privileges, like pretending I have a chance with someone like that. What would he see if he looked at me? Crazy hair, a full figure in an outfit so casual it classifies as pajamas, tired but observant brown eyes, and the blessings of good genes from my mother, with a pert nose and what Mom calls a “youthful appearance,” but I call a curse of being carded forever.

And the whole two-different-shoes thing, which could be a fashion statement, you know? It could. Don’t question it.

The coast is clear. Tap tap tap. I knock softly on the men’s room door, assuming it’s a one-seater like all the other stores I’ve been in this morning. No reply.

Sauntering in, I do a double take. Damn! Two urinals and two stalls instead of the big old square room. Someone could walk in on me. A guy could come in here and whip it out if I’m not careful.

Then again, it’s been so long, I’m not sure I remember what they whip out.

Last year, one of my shops for a gas station chain made me count the number of hairs on the urinal cakes. That was, I contend, the low point in my secret shopping career. Fortunately, this particular chain does not have an obsession with hirsute urinators.

How progressive.

I tap on my phone and open the app, scanning the questions. Enough toilet paper? Check. Faucets in working order? Check. Paper-towel dispenser full? Check.

Toilets and urinals in operating order? Hoo boy.

If you’ve never been in a men’s room, and have only set foot in the ladies’ room at most fine (and not so fine) establishments, you need to know this: store owners hate men. No, really—this is the one area where women get treated better. We may earn seventy-seven cents on the dollar compared to men, but, by God, our public bathrooms don’t look like something out of a Soviet-era prison.

Or worse—a Sochi hotel during the Olympics.

My mind wanders as I try not to touch anything I’m not required to touch in order to do my job and get out of here. I recall the scent of aftershave and man on Mr. Perfect Blue-Gray Suit from a few minutes ago, instead of the acrid odor of moldy cheese, urine, and chemical deodorizer that smells like poison-ivy pesticide. How would it feel not only to touch a man so put together, so confident, so in control—but to be allowed to?

The overwhelming pleasure of being in a relationship isn’t the actual affection, sex, and companionship. It’s the permission to be casual, to reach out and brush your hand against a pec, to thread your fingers in his hair, to hold hands and snuggle and have access to his abs, his calves, the fine, masculine curve of a forearm when you want.

On your terms.

By mutual agreement. The thought of running my palms from his wrists to his shoulders, then down that fine valley of sculpted marble chest to rest on his waist, to slide around and embrace him, makes my mouth curl up in a seductive smile.

That no one will ever see. So why bother?

Besides, I have toilets to flush.

I check the back of the bathroom door for the cleaning chart. You know those pieces of paper on the backs of the doors, with initials and times written on them to verify that the restroom has been cleaned? Someone verifies that verification.

Me. That’s who. Of course, I have no way to verify that JS (the initials down the line for the past four hours) has actually cleaned the bathroom. Only a video camera would be able to tell for sure.

And while modern society loves to videotape everyone in public, mostly for the purpose of catching Lindsay Lohan in an uncompromising crotch shot, corporations haven’t begun videotaping bathrooms.

Yet.

And thank goodness, not only for privacy reasons, but because cameras put people like me out of a job. As much as my job drives me nuts on days like this, it’s a paycheck. I have health insurance. Paid time off. A retirement plan.

At twenty-four, that’s like being a Nobel Prize winner in today’s economy. Most of my friends from college are working part-time at retail stores in the mall, being evaluated by secret shoppers like…me.

Question number thirteen stops me cold. “Is the bathroom aesthetically pleasing?” Um, what? It still makes me cringe, even for the ninth time. The walls are a pale gray, with tile running halfway up. Chips and stains on the tile make me wonder what men have done in here. How does taking a pee translate into broken tiles? And those yellowed stains. I shudder. Is it really that hard to aim?

Whoosh! Whoosh! I flush both urinals, then rush over to toilet #1. Whoosh! I stand in front of the stall to #2 and get ready to flush that one.

I’m in my own little world and let my guard down to ponder the question. I am also exhausted and most definitely not in top form, because I let a few seconds go by before realizing that someone is coming in the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I see a business shoe, and that becomes a blur as I scurry into one of the stalls and shut the door.

Heart pounding, I stare at the dented back of the stall door. Then I look down. Chipped red nail polish peeks up at me from my open-toed navy shoe. Aside from being outed as a transgendered person in here, there’s no plausible reason why any men’s room stall occupant should have red toenails.

I quickly scramble to perch myself on the toilet, feet planted firmly on either side of the rim, squatting over the open bowl like I am giving birth. Because I am genetically incapable of balance—ever—and as my heart slams against my chest so hard it might as well be playing a djembe, I lean carefully forward with one arm against the back of the stall door, the other clutching my phone.

The unmistakable sound of a man taking a whizz echoes through the bathroom. I can’t help myself and look through the tiny crack in the door.

It’s Mr. Sex in a Suit, his back to me. Thank goodness, because if I got a full-frontal shot right now, then how would I answer the “aesthetically pleasing” question from a strictly professional standpoint?

The tiny bit of shifting I do to peer through the crack makes my right foot slip, and I make a squeaking sound, then lose my grip on my phone as my arm flails.

Ka-PLUNK!

You know that sound, right? I know, and you know, that I’ve just dropped my smartphone in the toilet, but he thinks the man—he assumes it’s a man—in here just delivered something the size of a two-hundred-year-old turtle into the toilet.

I look down. My phone is still glowing, open to the question “Is the bathroom aesthetically pleasing?”

Staying silent, I struggle to remain perched on the toilet and in balance. One palm splays flat against the stall door, one hand curls into a fist as it poises over the toilet water.

Four-hundred-dollar phone

or

Arm in nasty men’s room toilet water.

I have the distinct disadvantage of seeing every dried stain on the inside of the rim that my feet occupy, and I know that launching my hand into that porcelain prison means gangrenous death in three days after male pee germs invade my bloodstream and kill me.

But it’s a $400 phone.

A company phone.

Closing my eyes, I lower my hand into the ice-cold water and pretend I’m Rose in the movie Titanic, bobbing on that miraculous door as my hand fishes blindly around the bottom of the toilet for my phone.

I get it not once, not twice, but three times as it slips and catches, slips and catches, and then—

The stall door opens toward me, sending me backwards with a scream, my arm stuck in the toilet as I fall down slightly, my back pushing against the toilet-flush knob.

Whoosh!