This is a revised version that I think is better than the one originally posted.
You could tell he was squatting. The way his right foot was turned slightly inward, and the way the pressure of his foot against the side of his Pumas caused a bulge in the leather, gave it away. He must have walked through some wet grass; the black rubber at the heel was darkened and a bit shiny. The very bottom edges of his pants were moist as well, but only at the back where they had just begun to fray. Or maybe they came like that. The pale, straight grain jeans, crumpled into a stack, looked like they must have cost 150 dollars. The benefit, for him, of the faded form-fitting jeans, was that they didn’t touch the ground even as they were around his ankles. Only the titles were legible on the discarded newspaper lying on the floor, a short toss away. One corner of the paper was well dampened by the small translucent puddle it partially sat in. The paper’s crease was crisp like it had recently been plucked from a stand. Any item that hit the floor would most likely remain unclaimed. The speckle pattern vinyl floor tiles were a couple shades darker than the beige eggshell surface of the stall walls. The dividing wall didn’t merely facilitate privacy for the sallow stall. It provided a space for advertising personal services, initiating political forums, and showcasing galleries of crude genital portraits. Noise from the cafeteria flooded in as the main door swung open, drowning out the faint electrical hum and the self-conscious bodily sounds.