I line the toilet bowl with toilet paper, layer by layer. There are multiple stalls and I can’t have the sound of my vomit hitting the ceramic bowl give me away. I see feet in the stall next to me, so I wait, patiently, but the the second I hear the sound of the bathroom door close, my concert begins. I stand and turn ceremoniously towards the toilet bowl, and in a ritual that feels depressingly familiar, I shove the first two fingers deep into my throat. A spray of black coffee comes streaming out. And I gag as it burns my throat and incinerates my esophagus. I step out of my stall to wash my hand, and return. If I want to vomit a second time I need to clean my hand first. It’d be gross to put my vomit covered hand back into my mouth. That would be too far. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. By vomit number three, there is nothing left in my stomach and the final jerk of my body brings a wave of relief and a hidden grin. The grayish brown water in the bowl is dismissed with a flush.

 

It’s time to leave.