Dear Seraphina,
I saw you on the cover of US Weekly the other day! You looked so beautiful and commanding, like you own the camera. Isn’t that what they say?
I was working the morning shift when the woman who swaps out the magazines came in. She is always very pleasant to me, but I get the sense some of the other cashiers don’t like her. I guess she isn’t nice enough to them or whatever. Don’t you think that sometimes people feel too entitled? Like, they expect everybody to be nice to them, but then they don’t put in any effort to earn that niceness. Maybe it’s just the people I work with. I get along with them okay, though I mostly mind my own business.
Oh, and the stockroom guy? We “broke up,” if you want to call it that. I agreed to go out with him again because, well, I thought I could get another meal out of it. And I did! A big bowl of shrimp alfredo and some pretty good garlic bread. And I would be lying if I said I didn’t think he was kinda cute. He has a big nose and some of his hair is thinning, but that’s okay, I’m not that superficial. And he is actually a really nice guy. At least he is to me. So we went out again and had a nice time at the restaurant, and then we ended up at a bar like last time and had a few beers. I let him put his hand on my hip again, but this time I didn’t pull away when his fingers touched the small of my back, or when he leaned in and kissed me on my neck, and then one thing led to another and we were back at his apartment and the lights were off and we were kissing and he was taking my top off and suddenly, I froze.
He asked me what was wrong. I didn’t say anything at first—I just straddled him on the couch while the TV was on in the background, some sitcom rerun I think. Then he asked me again what was wrong, and again I didn’t say anything, and so he got this weird look on his face and said my name and asked me again. Finally I told him I wasn’t sure if we should do this, and he just stared at me for a long time and then nodded and said he understood, and he offered to drive me home. Thank God for gentlemen, right? But, and I know this is going to sound weird, part of me was hoping that he wouldn’t be a gentleman. We had already got going and there I was on his lap with my shirt off, telling him I didn’t want to continue, and I guess part of me wanted him to not take no for an answer. Sick, isn’t it?
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what I’m saying, just rambling again.