Dear Seraphina,
How goes the filming on the film? (Sorry, that was corny, wasn’t it?) I hope everything is going good. I wanted to let you know that me and the stockroom guy went out again. But before you get too excited, let me make it clear that the date . . . did not turn out like I hoped.
I guess the girl he was seeing in the prepared-foods department broke it off, and one day we were in the breakroom together and there was this awkward silence, so I asked him how he was doing and he said good, and then there was more of that awkward silence. So I asked him if he wanted to get a drink that night or some other night, and he was quiet for a moment before he smiled and said sure. And so we ended up going out again, back at that same bar, and this time I was the one who made the first move, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the lips (not sure if I mentioned it before, but he has this bushy beard and it sort of tickles to kiss him), and then eventually we ended up back at his apartment and were on the couch again, and he started to take off my shirt but stopped suddenly and asked if I was sure I wanted to continue. Because, you know, last time I didn’t. And I nodded at him and told him that I did want to continue but that I wanted him to . . . be rough.
You should have seen the look on his face. It was like I had just asked him to swallow broken glass. He looked horrified at the thought! I told him that it was okay and that I wanted him to be mean, that I wanted him to hit me, but it was pretty clear right away that he was no longer in the mood. Remember what I said before—“thank God for gentlemen”? Well, in that moment I really wished he wasn’t a gentleman.
In the end he pushed me off him, but in a gentle way, like he didn’t want to hurt me at all, and he tried to stand up. And I had this thought that if I started hurting him, then maybe he would start hurting me like I wanted. And so I slapped him, right across the face. He didn’t react. He just stared at me. So I slapped him again, and again, and again. And when it became clear that I wasn’t going to stop slapping him, he grabbed my wrist and held it tight, and for a second or two I got excited and thought, Yes, finally! But he didn’t hit me back. He didn’t even squeeze my wrist hard. He just forced my hand away from his face and pushed me off him and told me that I should leave. Before, he had driven me home, but this time he didn’t even offer that, though he did say he would call me an Uber.
I left immediately and without a word. I felt so embarrassed. I felt so ashamed. I was already thinking about how he would tell the guys he worked with in the stockroom about what happened, and how word would get around the store and I would never be able to show my face there ever again. But . . . well, it’s been almost a week now, and nobody has given me any strange looks, at least no stranger than they usually do.
I know you’re very busy on set or wherever you might be reading this, so thanks for taking the time. I always feel better after talking to you. I hope the shoot is going great. Tell Steven I say hi!