A friendly older man told me I was doing a good job. He mumbled, so it was hard to make out his words. Then he said, “You could work at Hooters,” with a sly smile. Mumbled or not, those words I heard.
I still remember it all these years later. I choke on the heat that’s risen from my chest and floods into my cheeks. I can’t go back and erase my sick sweet smile and play-along laugh. I can’t smack some sense into myself, or better yet into him. I can’t be inside my young body, stand upright, square my shoulders, look him in the eye and say, “No, I don’t think I could. I’m only 15. But, thanks … for not only creeping me out but also sexually harassing me in what is supposed to be the House of God.”
One response to “Hooters”
this is heartbreaking.