She's holding an ocean of piss in the backseat and she's been silent for forty minutes. Three guys, just her. They're arguing about the playlist. They've driven past two petrol stations. Each time she wants to ask to stop, her face goes hot and her eyes fall to her lap.
She has to piss so badly her teeth hurt. The heels were a mistake. The bra was worse. She's mid-conversation with the one person at the mixer who matters, ankles crossed, thighs locked. She laughs at his joke right on time.
Forty minutes into the perm, her bladder's bursting, courtesy of the latte she finished before it started. She could ask the stylist to pause. She won't, not to one she's met twice. The stylist asks if she's travelling soon. Japan, she says, like it's the only thing on her mind.
Her bladder aches halfway through yoga class. She drank too much water, forgetting the icy aircon. The instructor calls child's pose, and the waistband of her leggings cuts in as she folds. Toilet's outside. But she won't step out in front of the whole class. She squirms.