And the second this kid leans closer to me,
Andrew’s whole body locks halfway through a transaction?—
credit card in hand, mid-swipe, mid-smirk,
midwho-the-fuck-is-this-guy.
Whatever I was going to say is gone.
Andrew’s fingers are hovering the register,
eyes cutting across the bar,
through the noise,
piercing the back of this guy’s head.
“I—uh…”
That’s all I get out because?—
nope.I’m fucking done.
I’m not sitting here one more second
being stared at like I'm just holes
and hair
and lips
and skin
to be visually and imaginationally consumed.
And Andrew doesn’t want me here.
Not really.
I grab my purse,
glancing at Andrew one last time.
He’s staring.
Then—
The drawer slams shut.
The credit card slaps the bar.
He mutters off to his coworker
as he heads this way,
drying his hands on a towel,
tossing the towel into the sink,
