She locked the door of the stall, leaning her head against the cold white plastic. Eyes closed, she felt the hot tears seeping through her eyelashes to trickle down her cheeks. A shaky sigh escaped her lips. She clenched her teeth and swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry.

Looking down, she saw a pair of high heels in the stall next to her. Black, three-inch heels, open-toed. Three perfectly pedicured toenails were peeking out of each shoe, the red nail polish shining like it had just been applied. The girl who belonged to the high heels had small feet and thin ankles; she was probably the type of girl that guys went wild for. Her legs were perfectly tanned and smooth—most likely the product of waxing. She probably had pouting down to an art. She probably wore Victoria’s Secret underwear. She probably had a walk-in closet full of new clothes, looked great in a bikini, and was never alone on a Friday night. She’s probably a bitch, thought the girl in the stall. She’s probably a stupid, vicious slut.

As the high heels clicked out of the stall, the girl peeked through the crack to get a glimpse of the high-heeled girl. But it didn’t matter. She’d already resolved to hate her.