The do-over

It must have been something I ate.

By late afternoon, I am feeling distinctly unwell. My forehead beads with sweat, my face grows wan and pale, my stomach churns. I sit through meetings with eyes glazed, counting the minutes until my escape.

I don't feel so hot, I say, and cut across the office to seek refuge in the women's bathroom. The stalls are full. Someone is taking her time in the middle stall, flushing compulsively every thirty seconds while sitting on the pot. I wait and grow desperate, scoping out my emergency plan. When I start contemplating my handbag as a potential receptacle, one of the assistants emerges.

"The Seat Pisser is back," she says grimly.

The mysterious Seat Pisser has been a topic of much vituperation in our office - the subject of several increasingly graphic office-wide emails reminding us not to "sprinkle our business" over the seats. At one point last year, a few of the assistants, including this one, decided to initiate a Salem witch hunt, haunting the women's bathroom over the course of several weeks to trap the culprit. When the enemy escaped their clutches, their hostility heightened.

"I don't know who it is, but I am going to find her and I am going to strangle her," she says, wiping her hands angrily at the sink.

"Good stuff!" I chirp, rushing past her into the sanctity of the stall. And then I notice something. There, in section next to mine, are my bosses' shoes.

You cannot puke next to your boss. You CANNOT DO IT IT.

A rustling of clothes. An emphatic zip. Then, silence.

Holy Mother of God, GET OUT OF THE FUCKING STALL, FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

More dawdling, and then, blessedly, an exit.

After I rid my body of all unnecessary internal organs, I stumble out into the street, looking for a cab. There is a line near Grand Central Station and I am behind a robust middle-aged black woman.

There are no taxis and I am swaying now, struggling to stand up.

"You OK?" she asks.
"I am...feeling...unwell. Nauseated."
"You pregnant?"
"No." Thank God.
"What you eat?"
"I don't know...I..."

As I itemize the list of food I consumed, a man walks past the line, hailing an oncoming taxi.

"DID YOU SEE THAT? HE CUT THE LINE!" she screams.

"Hey!" someone says behind me. "There's a LINE."

"YOU GET OUT OF THAT TAXI!" the woman shrieks. Her hand is suddenly on the door. The man, now inside, looks at her in terror.

"YOU CAN'T BE CUTTING THE MOTHERFUCKING LINE LIKE THAT, ASSHOLE!" she continues. "You see that girl? She SICK! She SICK and she NEED a taxi. So DON'T BE STEALING HER TAXI like that."

"It's actually your taxi," I remind her feebly. But it doesn't matter. She is about to pull the man out of the taxi herself when, shamefacedly, he swings his legs out onto the street and stalks off.

"THAT'S RIGHT! You TAKE your SORRY ASS and you WALK IT ON HOME before I kick it, you PUNK," she calls after him. The taxi line erupts into applause.

"Shoot..." is all the woman says.

And with that, she deposits me in the cab, and before I can thank her for her kindness, before I can tell her that I love her with all of my heart, she shuts the taxi door and waves.

* * * * * * *

When I arrive at Fauxhawk's house in Brooklyn, I am more dead than alive. He has decorated the apartment with candles, arranged a beautiful spread of cheese and fruit. I am overwhelmed by this act of sweetness and love.

Simultaneously, I am overwhelmed by a wave of nausea.

"I made squash soup!" he says proudly.

HUK. HUK. HUK.

"And mussels!"

BLOOOOOOOOOOORRP!

Oh dear.

The soup and mussels and exotic cheese will have to wait. I've got the porcelain gods on my hands, and they are very, very displeased.

"We'll do a do-over tomorrow if you're up for it," Fauxhawk says, as I rush to the alter for another offering.

So, one and all, Happy Valentine's Day. This time, for reals.