Yes, it's supposed to.
It was not the first time I listened to their conversation while on the toilet. Their words, twisting through the gap below the door, drove me to catch every syllable that jostled and kneaded my bowels, the friction igniting a noxious flame in my throat. Every sliver of hot meat and tendon on my bones longed to shatter the door, scramble through the hallway, and scream my rebuttal down at them, but I knew that if I did, they would see my patchwork stubble and my bulbous, heaving thighs splayed out before them, and they could never look at me again, nor I them. So I sit. I gasp and marinate in the fumes that leak through the gaps my flesh does not seal.