Narrator: Janelle W. | North Carolina, USA
This was before I had navigation on my phone. I had printed directions, missed a turn, and spent an hour being stubborn about it. By the time I pulled into a little roadside café I needed a bathroom more than directions.
There were two men at a table and a woman behind the counter. She pointed me towards a door marked PRIVATE and said the toilet was through the kitchen.
I went through. The kitchen was dark apart from a light above the sink. No cooking smells. No sound from a fridge. Along the back wall were six pairs of women’s shoes, arranged heel to wall. Different sizes. A pair of pink trainers had one lace tucked neatly inside.
There wasn’t a toilet door. There was a mattress behind a curtain that hadn’t been pulled all the way across.
I backed out. One of the men was standing in front of the exit. The woman said, “Did you find it?”
I said I’d left my wallet in the car. I made myself sound annoyed about it, like a customer who expected them to be inconvenienced. She looked at the man. He stepped aside.
I walked to the car. Didn’t run. I remember my knee hitting the steering column because I was trying to get in without turning away from the door. The woman came out carrying my sunglasses. I hadn’t taken them off inside. They were still clipped to my sun visor.
She held the second pair up and smiled. “You forgot these.”
I locked the doors and drove. She was still standing there in the mirror when the bend hid her.
I reported it from a gas station about fifteen miles away. I couldn’t give an address. The officer I spoke to took down the turns I remembered. I never heard anything back.
For a long time I convinced myself I’d been rude to people who were only trying to help. Then I would remember the shoes. Six pairs of shoes, each with the toes facing that curtain. I should have given a better description. I should have remembered the road. Those are the thoughts I have now, more than fear for myself.
