It is as black as outer space in there, and the light switch flips up and down uselessly, like the lips of the President. Oh, well, pity the woman who cannot pee in the dark. Having grown up in a household where the power was routinely shut off due to nonpayment, you are practiced in the art of locating toilet seats by touch and feel. Once the target has been locked in, the compact urinary jet of the female, unlike the helter-skelter garden hose of its male counterpart, can fire with almost pinpoint precision. It is appropriate, you are forced to admit, to be sitting in literal darkness since, after all, you have been in the figurative dark for about three days.
Darkness can protect as well as threaten.
Of course, there is a limit to how long you can enjoy asylum in the ladies' room. On the toilet seat, you shift your weight from your right to your left buttock. Now your head and shoulder are resting against the left panel of the stall. In your bloodstream, molecules of wine and gin wander, cartwheeling, singing, like a troupe of minstrels. A few more drops dribble out of your urethra.