So I'm in the men's room. . .
(Is it still called the loo? How did that term come about? Do they still say w.c. in the U.K.? Doesn't w.c. stand for water closet? Sounds quaint. In the U.S., we call them bathrooms, as a euphemism, but let me tell you, when the homeless guys are taking a bath, at the sink, at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan, it ain't too quaint. But I digress. "Is it perfume from a dress that makes me so digress?" The answer is yes. But not any perfume found in a men's room, which is where I started this post. Oh. And in Ireland, they were called toilets. Straightforward.)
. . . and I have a need to dry my hands. . .
(I don't like those hair dryer moronic things on the wall, the ones that never work, and you just end up rubbing your hands on your pants, or under your arms, or elsewhere.)
. . .so the paper towel dispenser claims to operate in a manner that is declared MOTION-ACTIVATED. I wave at the machine like I'm waving goodbye to my youth. Or flirting with the security guard who is observing me on some camera. Or making some gay overture to some Republican ex-Congressman or outed right-wing religious zealot who is against gay marriage.
Hello? HERR MOTION-ACTIVATED DAEMON? !
To paraphrase Ratso Rizzo (Dustin Hoffman [whom some strangers have said I resemble] in "Midnight Cowboy":
"I'm wavin' heah!"
I kept waving. I thought of trying some Latin, maybe Age quod agis since it looked as if I was performing some kind of benediction (or as Michelle of Michelle's Spell would add, malediction).
I switched from a testosterone-driven frantic waving to a more gentle, almost regal, wave. Then I remembered where I was. A Men's Room.
And the paper towel appeared. (Not enough of it.) I rubbed my hands.
And walked out.
Into the mall, aswarm in nubile bodies. Meaning lots of hot young chicks.
Friday night. Pheromones in the air. MOTION-ACTIVATED indeed!
(Look, just as the Republicans are trying to shore up their base [I hope they fail], I'm lamely trying to win back my male readers. But they probably weren't my base to begin with.)
As you were.
P.S. I think I am up for Recent Commenter Lee's 50-word-story challenge. Let me sleep on it. But I warn you. I'm told I snore.