There is a woman who urinates so forcefully and for such long durations that I often fear running into her in our shared bathroom, for that would again entrap me within that relentless, stentorian sound that nearly shatters the tiles.

I noticed this woman during my first week as a new corporate hire for a soulless bank. My hair was coiffed, my shirt was pressed, and my toes were uncomfortably smashed into pointy heels, nestled by the thinnest cushioning on the planet: nylon netting. From my new work desk, the bathroom was located two building width’s away, at the other end of a long L shape. I quickly learned to dehydrate myself throughout the day to avoid making the laborious journey down one hall, and then the sharp left turn down the next. It wasn’t so much the laborious nature of passing rows and rows of cubicles as I trekked toward the lavatory as much as the fear that I would trip and impale one of my eyeballs with a stray heel.

During these early bathroom excursions, I would sneak glances at the other women. Sitting in cubicles, rushing down hallways, chatting near elevators. They all passed for “business casual,” at the very least, including the refrigerator-sized women who wore tentlike cardigans and, miraculously, heels. The old-timers were an easy spot: expensive shoes, disheveled hair, and a vacant, fuzzy look in their eyes. Mid-thirties, middle-management women, mainly. The occasional small-figured spunky businesswoman type would zip past me from time to time, swinging narrow hips, and I would admire her for her ease of being female.

But this woman was something else. She made me uncomfortable, and she was walking straight toward me, bathroom door intersecting our paths.

The first thing I noticed was her hair. Bleached blonde and past her shoulders, you could tell she thought she’d nailed the easy-breezy natural waves look. It was more like a bad case of bedhead and maniacal flyaways, stray strands stuck to her suit. Her skirt suit. Embossed with a rococo design, the thick, red fabric seemed more appropriate for upholstering a couch in hell. Her lumpy-yet-compact figure was wrapped so skin-tightly that she tilted forward a bit as she thump-thump-thumped down the hall. Boy did she thump.

The second thing I noticed was her nose. She navigated her entire deformed-pear-shaped entourage with it, and I instinctively furrowed my eyebrows to get a closer look at the Terracotta brown, smudgy makeup caked across her bumpy nose, forehead and cheeks. She didn’t look at me, so I kept scanning her face, eventually stopping at her too-blue eyes and smudgy, clumpy mascara goop. I began to feel queasy.

As she turned away from me and plummeted into the bathroom, thick red rump disappearing behind the door, I noticed the third thing: her legs. They were sheathed in thick, medium-brown tights and stuffed into low, square heels. Square. I considered that I, too, owned a pair of square-toed dressy shoes, but I reassured myself that mine were not cause for question. Mine were plain black, and I could have sworn I saw a shiny gold brooch fly by on one of them as she entered the bathroom.

I trodded lightly down the rest of the way to the bathroom, careful to not split my ankle as I turned to push the door open, as I’d nearly done that morning. Along with my unease at this assaulting woman, I was tired of saying hello and introducing myself to each new person in my path. I trodded slowly.

Click-click-clicking my way onto the cool, hard tile, the echo was stifled by an extremely loud, “chssshhh”ing noise, which I discounted as an air conditioner or some corporate bathroom sanitary compliance apparatus. But then I heard a little sigh, and a refreshed, invigorated wave of “CHSSSHHH…”

Is that… peeing? That’s too loud to be peeing…

The thought furrowed my eyebrows even harder, and I froze midway into the stall, wholly shocked by the intensity and continuance of the torrential downpour. It suddenly occurred to me that it wasn’t stopping. Frightened, I leapt into the stall, nearly snapping my neck as my heel skid on a wet spot near the toilet.

That’s not peeing. It’s been too long to still be peeing…

I closed the stall and waited. The sound filled my ears. My face began to get hot.

CHSSSHHH…

I looked around me, as if to share this unbelievable, freakish feat with someone. The tampon trash can, even.

CHSSSHHH…

My eyeballs bulged.

I began to panic, bringing my hands to my chest to hold down the incredulity that was trying to escape from my heart. It’s GOT to stop soon, I repeated to myself, It’s GOT to, yet the steady, forceful fire hose of pee continued, shooting forcefully into a toilet bowl a few feet away from me.

I sat down.

I held my breath, in part to perhaps be the first person to die from asphyxiation due to beating out the longest urination session in the history of the universe. I waited and counted the first few missed breaths as the charring, relentless stream continued to pelt down into the water. My heart raced faster as the sound resonated inside my ears, my brain whirred from imagining a bulging, gaudy bladder stuffed inside that thick, red, hellish skirt suit.

Just as the spots of near-death and lack of oxygen began to appear before my eyes, the sound finally weakened a few decibels, remaining half-mast for another painfully long stretch of time. My lungs ached as I beared down, determined to wait it out to the end, and finally, the echo of trickles and drops began to bounce off the ceramic walls. I began to regain my sanity, and silently let out the gigantic breath.

It was over.

I had lost track of all time and was beginning to worry that I was being missed back at my desk. Plus, my own bladder was beginning to ache.

I heard the woman’s stall door fling open with a CLANG and the whirring of the sink as she washed her hands, the mild sound of the faucet miniscule in comparison with her violent stream of piss. She exited the restroom, and I heard a distant thump-thump-thumping fade away down the hall.

I finally undid my pants and sat, shamefully, on the toilet seat. My dainty stream felt both normal and embarrassing. It was over in a few seconds.

I quietly gathered myself up and washed my hands for a very long time.