By Will Leitch

Let's call her Ms. Dalloway. When she realized that excretion was in her future, and soon, she scampered downstairs at the Knitting Factory, taking a break from her friend's comedy show, to loosen all lingering clods from their now-unwelcome spot somewhere near the colon.

Ms. Dalloway gathered her purse and fumbled into the bathroom. She stopped, unconsciously, out of habit, at the mirror to check her hair and then turned toward the stall. She wasn't looking where she was going, though, and she slammed right into me. She seemed surprised to see me; I was surprised, too. It's not every day an attractive woman who needs to poop is battling me for space.

"Oh, excuse me," she said.

"No, excuse me," I said, extending my outstretched arm and palm. "Please, go ahead."

Ms. Dalloway looked at me, and I noticed a dollop of sweat tiptoeing down her cheek. This is not fun for me either, I wanted to tell her, but my hand was still outstretched, welcoming her, and I couldn't exactly put it down now, not after we'd come this far.

I took the stall next to Ms. Dalloway; there must have been a funny act on, because we were the only two people in there. I heard a grunt, followed by a splashing sound and a not-so-silent poof. And then a "Jesus!"

The voice, after what must have been an agonizing few seconds, came from over the stall. "Um … I'm sorry … do you have any, uh, toilet paper over there? We're a little, er, lacking here."

"Oh. Uh, sure." With a little flip, I rolled an extra roll under the door, and she murmured a "Thanks" and went about her business. We opened the stall doors and exited at the same time.

Me and Ms. Dalloway stood next to each other at the two sinks and stared straight forward. She had red hair and was wearing a floofy light blue blouse. The paper towels were on my side; I scrubbed quickly and got the hell out of her way. I left the restroom, and she followed me into the concert hall, where a man was playing guitar and making jokes about cereal. Ms. Dalloway turned left, and I turned right. We later locked eyes during the show, and she actually nodded and smiled. Which was nice.

Before leaving the club, I asked the nice woman employee upstairs what was going on with the bathrooms. She gave me a bored, this- is- the- 400th- time- I've- had- to- tell- someone- this- tonight look. Then she explained that one bathroom at the Tribeca music/comedy hotspot was under construction for several weeks, so the men's and women's restrooms were consolidated for a while. "Unisex Tuesday," she called it.

I hope it never happens again.