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Lisa took a deep breath just before entering the dingy ladies room in back of the gas station. She flung off her auburn wig, revealing fading dark blonde curls badly in need of a touch up. She shoved the wig into her backpack and rummaged around, producing a battered pack of Marlboro's. Lisa gazed into the mirror, slowly bringing a cigarette to her lips. Outside, she heard a deep male voice and the door to the ladies room suddenly slammed open...

The man, head down, his hand already unzipping his pants, stumbled over the threshold of the door.

Lisa stood still, shocked, until the man saw her shoes, looked up, and staggered back.

"Oh...what...is this..." the man slurred, taking a clumsy step back, raising his head to look at the plaque on the door with the cartoon skirted figure on it.

He turned, bleary-eyed, back to Lisa, squinted, then shook his head.

"Sorry," he said, and stumbled back out through the door.

It wouldn't be until the next morning, after an hour of throwing up all he'd drunk the night before, that he would realize the woman he'd barged in on had had dried caked blood all over one of her hands.