Allison turned her head up from the floor of her 4 by 5 stall to read the graffiti on the inside of the door. There, just barely visible amidst other markings and drawings were the remnants of a single phrase.
Regina is a filthy cunt.
Someone had gone in weeks, days, perhaps minutes after the original sentence had been written, crossed out a word, and changed the message entirely.
Regina has a filthy cunt.
Allison smiled at the thought of two separate people sharing this small, insignificant part of their lives and wondered if Regina was as disagreeable as she was portrayed on the wall of this public toilet in the middle of this college campus.
The first time she had heard the word was in seventh grade when Bobby Dufrene had used it in a disrespectful manner toward Rebecca Stevens. No one expected anything less of Bobby, though Allison rather liked Rebecca and could never understand how someone could find her unpleasant enough to direct such an obscene word at her. The repercussions of his actions were immediate and harsh. He was suspended from school for a week. Rebecca was forced to wear the embarrassment of the incident around with her for the next several months.
Rebecca didn’t deserve it, Allison thought. But maybe Regina did. Maybe she didn’t.
Perhaps she, like Rebecca, was just the unfortunate target of an unwarranted insult. Then again, maybe she was a filthy cunt. Or maybe she had one. Allison thought it unlikely that both would be true, but it was certainly within the realm of possibility. Still, even if there was truth on the door of this bathroom stall, was it really worth proclaiming to the world?
Allison tried to comprehend the disposition of the original writer. What would lead them to write such a thing in this place? What did Regina do to deserve not one, but two public condemnations? Did the second writer even know Regina? Were they just adding their own personal touch to a message that they, like Allison, found to be mildly amusing? Allison did not possess the answer to these questions, only the thought that she could do better.
She turned her head back down to the floor and began fumbling through her purse. There, in a small pocket on the inside lining of the bag she found a marker. Returning to the inside door of the stall, she uncapped the marker, pondered for a second, and began making the necessary changes. After a few seconds, her masterpiece was complete.
Regina has a magical cunt.
Allison didn’t know if her account of Regina’s cunt was accurate. She didn’t care. For a moment, a slight smile widened on her face as she considered the changes that she had just made in Regina’s life. If she had done nothing, a person would have walked into this same stall minutes after she had left, read about Regina’s filthy cunt, and left with a preconceived notion about anyone named Regina that they would have met for the remainder of their life. Now, at least, that preconceived notion would lead to optimism every time a different Regina showed up. Allison didn’t know what it meant to have a magical cunt, but it sounded like a good thing; something to get lost in, certainly better than having a filthy one. That was good enough for her.
Satisfied with her work, Allison returned the cap to her marker and placed it back in her purse. After taking a deep breath, she wiped herself clean and flushed the toilet.
The door creaked as she opened it.
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