It’s meant as a compliment. The deep gaze, head tilted just so, and then the ask. And I feel like I’ve been served up on a platter like a stuffed pig. I want to run but my legs don’t work. I’m frozen. Pinned like a bug on somebody’s display wall. I laugh. My brain is crashing, white flashes of jagged thought and shame masking as titillation as my body betrays me. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make a big deal. Don’t make him uncomfortable. Surely he knows better. It’s 2026. I should be flattered. And that’s the in. I should be flattered that I am found to be attractive enough that he can’t not say the thing. Don’t make waves. After all it was a compliment.
You know the automatic hello? You don’t like them, they don’t like you and you give each other a wide birth when there are people around but then they get you in private, within earshot of a single witness and put you on the spot just by saying hello and you automatically say hello back and then kick yourself for an hour because you did? It’s like that.
