The Potty Pickup

Photo by Sebastian Herrmann on Unsplash

It’s a warm summer night. It’s dark. Anyone who isn’t at a party is already asleep. And those who came to the wedding and have plans tomorrow have already left. In photography, they call the best moment the golden hour, but at a party, that moment comes a bit later. People are in that state of mind where they’ve stopped caring, but the drunk monkey-brain hasn’t taken over yet.

Everyone’s inside the tent, partying, but I’m outside. The sun is gone, and the string of warm bulbs gives off just enough glow to make this a pleasant place to rest or talk. There are plenty of cosy corners to choose from, but I’m waiting near the portable toilet next to the tent.

She comes over. She’s happy drunk: the kind with bright eyes and a wide, unguarded smile. I’d been watching her on and off throughout the day. The smile had been constant. Her charming look was topped off with the tattoo on her shoulder, clearly exposed from her fitted but comfortable dress. Her choice to wear boots showed confidence. She could get away with anything.

She stops close enough for her warmth to reach me. The distance between us feels intentional. A moment stretches, quiet but charged, as if both of us are waiting to see who will speak first.

She asks, “Are you waiting?”

I pause, then say, “No, you’re next in line for the throne.”

Her laugh comes instantly. She’s sober enough to catch the wordplay and drunk enough to enjoy it. She steps a bit closer, amused. Her eyes hold mine, steady but playful, curious to see what comes next.

“That’s a beautiful way to phrase it,” she says, still smiling.

“True,” I say. “It’s also my favorite way of saying that you look like a princess.”

Her smile softens. “Careful,” she says. “That sounds like a line.”

“It may well be,” I reply. “Or maybe I just have a talent for spotting princesses.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly, her amusement slowing into something more deliberate. The music from the tent fades into a low, steady pulse. She tilts her head, studying me with that half-skeptical, half-inviting look that keeps a conversation balanced on the edge of something more.

“Any chance you’d know if there’s a prince around tonight?” she asks.

I smile, flattered, and lean in toward her. “The prince couldn’t make it. You’re talking to the king.”

The moment holds. The air feels heavier now, in that quiet, suspended way when both people know they’re crossing an invisible line but pretend they aren’t.

Then the toilet door opens. The spell breaks. My daughter steps into the light with sleepy eyes, reaching for me to pick her up.

I glance at her. Her expression shifts, baffled but charmed, followed by a quiet, knowing smile.

“Enjoy your evening, princess,” I say.

She nods once, still sparkling, while I walk my daughter to the car. It’s time to head home and enjoy sweet dreams.