081413 #worm Pick a stall. They're all empty. One guy in a black beret splashes into a urinal. You go in the stall farthest from the door, back in the corner. Slide the steel latch home. Depants yourself, make yourself comfortable. You wouldn't have believed it possible a few minutes ago, but you don't let go right away. Half-involuntarily, you wait for the sound of the other guy's hand-washing, the ratchet-ratchet-r-r-r-rip of his paper toweling, the squeak-clunk of the cylindrical waste can's chrome hatch, and finally the swoosh of the door as he leaves and here it comes--one silent grunt--the penultimate push--the plashing projectile of relief! Faintly light-headed, you sit there for a moment, as a token gesture to the habit of waiting to see if you're really done, but with a good solid one like that, there's really no question. There's hardly even anything to wipe. Now that's satisfying.