08-17-2025, 01:34 AM
itle: "Stall Tactics"
It all started because Avery really had to pee. Like, hands-on-hips, baby-giraffe-trying-to-walk, desperate. The kind of urge that turns you into a philosopher, questioning the hubris of humanity for inventing iced coffee and walking malls.
She’d been shopping for a dress she didn’t need at a boutique she couldn’t afford, because “retail therapy” is cheaper than actual therapy — until it isn’t. The cafe attached to the shop served three-dollar espresso shots in pretentious little glasses that tasted like burnt regret. Naturally, she had two.
So now she was power-walking through the food court of the Magnolia Heights Galleria Mall, weaving between strollers and slow-walkers, her boots clicking like an anxious metronome.
The women’s restroom was a sanctuary. Light pink tiles, mildly scented soap, and a kind of sisterhood-in-the-air that whispered you’re safe here. Avery pushed the door open, sighing relief.
“Ma’am?”
She froze. The word landed on her spine like cold water.
Avery turned, ponytail whipping like a suspicious horse. There stood a mall security guard — early 30s, tall, clipboard-holding, with the crisp energy of someone who took their minimum wage job very seriously. He had this Clark Kent vibe going on: glasses, gentle curls, an earnest kind of nervousness.
“Can I help you?” she asked, arms folded and eyebrow arched — the sacred stance of the Defiant Girl.
He hesitated. His eyes flicked to her tote bag, her boots, her eyeliner.
“Sorry, I… just wanted to check. There was a complaint. Someone said they thought…” he trailed off.
Avery smiled. Not the nice kind.
“Oh! Someone thought I might not be a woman,” she said brightly. “Well, let’s all give Karen from Lane Bryant a round of applause for her bravery.”
The guard’s ears turned red.
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to,” she interrupted, casually leaning against the doorframe like a dramatic novel heroine. “Look, Officer...?”
“Eli,” he said quickly. “Just Eli. Not a cop. Just… mall.”
“Well, Just Eli, unless you’re here to hold the door while I monologue, I’m going to pee before I break the Geneva Convention.”
He blinked. Then — the miracle — he stepped aside.
“Right. Sorry. I—wasn’t trying to—just doing my job,” he mumbled.
Avery gave him a quick once-over, half-amused, half-curious.
“You always interrogate girls before they pee?”
He chuckled, sheepish. “Only the interesting ones.”
That stopped her. A beat of silence. She tilted her head.
“You flirting with me, mall cop?”
He looked horrified. “No! I mean. Maybe. I mean—I didn’t mean to—”
She laughed, stepping inside the bathroom with a wink. “Hold that thought. I’ll be back in five minutes and slightly more hydrated.”
When she emerged, he was still there. Holding a coffee now. From the pretentious cafe.
“Peace offering?” he said, holding it out.
Avery eyed it. “Is it poisoned?”
“Only with capitalism.”
She took it.
They sat on a bench by the decorative fountain, the kind that was always broken. He told her he was saving up for grad school. She told him about her band — Funeral Glitter — and how she played synth and existential dread.
He asked if it was hard, being her. She said, “It’s harder not to be.” He nodded like that made perfect sense.
Eventually, he checked his watch. “I should get back. Someone’s probably stealing socks from Macy’s.”
She stood, brushing imaginary crumbs off her skirt. “I should get back to pretending I can afford dresses that cost more than my phone bill.”
He hesitated. “Hey, um… Would you maybe want to… I dunno, get coffee sometime? Like, not as a peace offering?”
Avery grinned. “I don’t date cops.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Exactly.”
She scribbled her number on his clipboard with eyeliner. “Next time you try to stop a girl from peeing, at least buy her dinner first.”
Then she turned on her heel and strutted away, boots clacking, ponytail bouncing, heart a little warmer.
Eli watched her go, blinking once, then twice, before muttering to himself:
“…Definitely the interesting ones.”
[End.]
It all started because Avery really had to pee. Like, hands-on-hips, baby-giraffe-trying-to-walk, desperate. The kind of urge that turns you into a philosopher, questioning the hubris of humanity for inventing iced coffee and walking malls.
She’d been shopping for a dress she didn’t need at a boutique she couldn’t afford, because “retail therapy” is cheaper than actual therapy — until it isn’t. The cafe attached to the shop served three-dollar espresso shots in pretentious little glasses that tasted like burnt regret. Naturally, she had two.
So now she was power-walking through the food court of the Magnolia Heights Galleria Mall, weaving between strollers and slow-walkers, her boots clicking like an anxious metronome.
The women’s restroom was a sanctuary. Light pink tiles, mildly scented soap, and a kind of sisterhood-in-the-air that whispered you’re safe here. Avery pushed the door open, sighing relief.
“Ma’am?”
She froze. The word landed on her spine like cold water.
Avery turned, ponytail whipping like a suspicious horse. There stood a mall security guard — early 30s, tall, clipboard-holding, with the crisp energy of someone who took their minimum wage job very seriously. He had this Clark Kent vibe going on: glasses, gentle curls, an earnest kind of nervousness.
“Can I help you?” she asked, arms folded and eyebrow arched — the sacred stance of the Defiant Girl.
He hesitated. His eyes flicked to her tote bag, her boots, her eyeliner.
“Sorry, I… just wanted to check. There was a complaint. Someone said they thought…” he trailed off.
Avery smiled. Not the nice kind.
“Oh! Someone thought I might not be a woman,” she said brightly. “Well, let’s all give Karen from Lane Bryant a round of applause for her bravery.”
The guard’s ears turned red.
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to,” she interrupted, casually leaning against the doorframe like a dramatic novel heroine. “Look, Officer...?”
“Eli,” he said quickly. “Just Eli. Not a cop. Just… mall.”
“Well, Just Eli, unless you’re here to hold the door while I monologue, I’m going to pee before I break the Geneva Convention.”
He blinked. Then — the miracle — he stepped aside.
“Right. Sorry. I—wasn’t trying to—just doing my job,” he mumbled.
Avery gave him a quick once-over, half-amused, half-curious.
“You always interrogate girls before they pee?”
He chuckled, sheepish. “Only the interesting ones.”
That stopped her. A beat of silence. She tilted her head.
“You flirting with me, mall cop?”
He looked horrified. “No! I mean. Maybe. I mean—I didn’t mean to—”
She laughed, stepping inside the bathroom with a wink. “Hold that thought. I’ll be back in five minutes and slightly more hydrated.”
When she emerged, he was still there. Holding a coffee now. From the pretentious cafe.
“Peace offering?” he said, holding it out.
Avery eyed it. “Is it poisoned?”
“Only with capitalism.”
She took it.
They sat on a bench by the decorative fountain, the kind that was always broken. He told her he was saving up for grad school. She told him about her band — Funeral Glitter — and how she played synth and existential dread.
He asked if it was hard, being her. She said, “It’s harder not to be.” He nodded like that made perfect sense.
Eventually, he checked his watch. “I should get back. Someone’s probably stealing socks from Macy’s.”
She stood, brushing imaginary crumbs off her skirt. “I should get back to pretending I can afford dresses that cost more than my phone bill.”
He hesitated. “Hey, um… Would you maybe want to… I dunno, get coffee sometime? Like, not as a peace offering?”
Avery grinned. “I don’t date cops.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Exactly.”
She scribbled her number on his clipboard with eyeliner. “Next time you try to stop a girl from peeing, at least buy her dinner first.”
Then she turned on her heel and strutted away, boots clacking, ponytail bouncing, heart a little warmer.
Eli watched her go, blinking once, then twice, before muttering to himself:
“…Definitely the interesting ones.”
[End.]
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