i can't even speak.
i haven't stopped shaking. and in all honesty, i've surprised myself at how absolutely irate i am about it all. i'm a bit torn between fits of laughter and fits of tears. i kept imagining myself laughing about it with my sister later. i'd tell the story, she'd do her impression of him, and everything would be fine.
"you look nice." i thanked him politely, post-poning any other form of conversation behind sips of my coffee. sir, you are married, my boss, and 30 years my senior.
"ladies first." he said, as he grabbed my arm. gross. fucking gross. don't touch me.
and so we arrived at our seats. he spent over two hundred dollars to get us "press-worthy" seats. orchestra. a fancy little christmas celtic show. and then that's when i realized that this wasn't about my review at all; this was a date.
two whole-fucking hours he spent staring at me and not at the show. i was practically in the lap of the woman to the right of me, simply to avoid his fast-approaching lean. i didn't know whether to vomit, to cry, or both all at once. fuck, i still don't.
"oh good, let me walk you to the lake, it's really nice..."
no, that's okay, bye! (as i procede to lose myself among the crowd)
and this is not okay. at all. ever. silly me for thinking he hired me because he liked my writing.
oh, and did i mention he was wearing a kilt? (cold showers forever)
"you look nice." i thanked him politely, post-poning any other form of conversation behind sips of my coffee. sir, you are married, my boss, and 30 years my senior.
"ladies first." he said, as he grabbed my arm. gross. fucking gross. don't touch me.
and so we arrived at our seats. he spent over two hundred dollars to get us "press-worthy" seats. orchestra. a fancy little christmas celtic show. and then that's when i realized that this wasn't about my review at all; this was a date.
two whole-fucking hours he spent staring at me and not at the show. i was practically in the lap of the woman to the right of me, simply to avoid his fast-approaching lean. i didn't know whether to vomit, to cry, or both all at once. fuck, i still don't.
"oh good, let me walk you to the lake, it's really nice..."
no, that's okay, bye! (as i procede to lose myself among the crowd)
and this is not okay. at all. ever. silly me for thinking he hired me because he liked my writing.
oh, and did i mention he was wearing a kilt? (cold showers forever)