Pressure was building in my crotch. I dreaded seeing Farrokh in there. Our paths crossed in that bathroom all too often.

There he was, standing proudly in front of the urinal. His underwear and jeans lay limp at his ankles. Vines of black hair gripped his ankles and climbed over his large buttocks to disappear underneath his shirt. Farrokh’s swayed his hips, following an imaginary beat. As always, I watched with confusion.

Was he a knuckle-dragging, imbecile? Was this an artistic expression of rage against social conformity? I flirted with approaching HR and risking the most absurd complaint in company history. No, there was nothing to be done.