I watch him pump the soap dispenser three times. He methodically lathers his palms, in between his fingers, his forearms—all the way to his elbows. He scrubs his hands, turns the faucet on and off five consecutive times, and glances back at me. “Can you…please just look at the wall?” I shift my narrowed gaze onto the toilet, his nerves suffocating the bathroom, and I feel badly that his OCD is riding him this hard.
