When people ask about my OCD as if I’m being patently unreasonable, I wonder how they are able to ignore so much. Take, for example, the guy in a public restroom whose phone was lying on the floor of the stall, between his feet, while he went about his business.
As I washed my hands, I watched in the mirror as his right hand occasionally dipped into view beneath the stall door, between wipes, to swipe between apps.
His friends probably joke about how he always needs to clean his phone’s screen. Little do they know
This made me think of the three times I’ve seen three different people at a neighborhood bar I used to frequent—a nice place, if a bit smokey, and rowdy when the Predators or Bears are playing—get a new cigarette from their own or someone else’s pack, place it to their lips, but let it slip as they try to light it, only to then pick it up off the floor and place back in their mouths as if nothing at all were wrong.