dodging phone calls from the lecherous compositor, I realize the folly of telling men beyond the age of fifty the fact that one is a dancer. you end up with uncomfortable proposals, being asked too many questions, finding that a quick call to confirm, "yes, two thousand, four by eight, three color," becomes fifteen oozy, hideous, protracted minutes.
:.:.
whether from an admittedly hot boy in a band (wanting the guts to say, no thank you and ps you know my boyfriend, he wrote a piece about you last year) or from a middle aged graphic designer (in my head yelping, god you're ten years older than my father, both you and that are gross), brushing off unwanted advances is slightly more than uncomfortable for me. I hate the way I feel compelled to apologize. I hate the way they seem to feel entitled.
the middle aged compositor prints the holiday cards sent out each winter by the place where I work. the first time I had to bring the files to him for printing I made the deadly mistake of telling him 1: my name and 2: that I dance. add these to fact of a pretty face and you find yourself being flirted with most horribly by a smirking sixty-year-old japanese typesetter who finds any excuse to say your name over and over again. drawing it out needlessly, gaaaahb-ree-ella. in that way that only flirts, old men, and foreigners will say my name. the way that makes my skin crawl. that makes me long for simple appellation and not signifier, a name like mildred or mary.
he will deliver the boxes of freshly printed cards tomorrow. he'll be glancing around and softly asking for me, and I'll be hiding in the copy room each time I hear the front door open.