The tension in the restroom was thick enough for me to choke on as I finally stepped out of the stall room to see who had spoken. My heart pounded as the stall door next to the one I had been in creaked open and revealed the woman who had spoken.
The woman, who seemed to be in her late forties or early fifties stepped out from the stall room slowly with her back straight and her shoulders squared with righteous fury like she was some kind of avenging angel. Except, with the way her face twisted in disgust as she glared at me, she looked more like a demon out for blood.
She was dressed in what I could only describe as churchy. She was in a long, shapeless skirt in a faded shade of maroon, a buttoned-up beige blouse that looked starched to hell and a lace scarf tied around her head. It was
