Alaina Hammond ~ Not in Paris

I was 28, and my age is very rel­e­vant to this story.

I had start­ed a rela­tion­ship a few months ear­li­er. It was fun, and it was shiny. I was fulfilled.

I was drink­ing cof­fee, just out­side of Harvard Square. A young man ran by. I would put his age at twen­ty, but prob­a­bly not more than that. He was wear­ing Harvard sweat­pants and no shirt.

I felt sev­er­al emo­tions simultaneously.

The first was lust.

The sec­ond was dis­gust at said lust. I’m not even thir­ty, and already I’m a dirty old woman? How is that fair? Gross!

I felt anger and resent­ment at this young man, for mak­ing me feel these things. What a lit­tle per­vert! How dare he ren­der me a pathet­ic, horny crone!

I felt a vis­cer­al empa­thy for all the old­er men who had sex­u­al­ly harassed me over the years, on sum­mer days when I showed a bit too much skin.

But I also felt a renewed con­tempt for them. They’d been where I was, but they’d cho­sen worse. By vocal­iz­ing their thoughts, they had inflict­ed them on me. This young man, in con­trast, would nev­er know that I exist­ed. I’d give him no cause to notice me.

I love my dig­ni­ty, my sense of deco­rum and piety. As such, I’m not going to debase myself by offer­ing a come-hith­er stare to a ran­dom under­grad­u­ate. If I must engage in unla­dy­like behav­ior, I’d rather do it onstage in front of mul­ti­ple onlook­ers, for I am a seri­ous actress. And like: Bawdiness isn’t tru­ly crude if it’s part of a larg­er art. I once “obscene­ly” chugged malt liquor on my knees, flanked by a bunch of pup­pets, but it was OK because I was play­ing Lady Macbeth, in the style of Alfred Jarry. Ah, the­ater. Ah, col­lege. Kind of wish three of my pro­fes­sors hadn’t been in the audi­ence, but whatever.

Where was I? Oh right, my pre­cious dignity.

Also, I love my boyfriend, who’s hot­ter than this Harvard child, and prob­a­bly even nerdier.

And also, this young man deserves his space. He has­n’t actu­al­ly invad­ed mine. His body has­n’t vio­lat­ed me, just because it’s shirt­less and pretty.

This entire thought process hap­pened with­in like…a fourth of a second.

I returned my atten­tion to my cof­fee. The guy con­tin­ued on his run, his day, his life.

And I even­tu­al­ly mar­ried my boyfriend. But that’s a sto­ry for anoth­er drink.

~

Alaina Hammond is a poet, play­wright, fic­tion writer, and visu­al artist. Her poems, plays, short sto­ries, paint­ings, draw­ings and pho­tographs have been pub­lished both online and in print. Publications include Spinozablue, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macramé Literary Journal, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Superpresent, Clockwise Cat, Ranger Magazine, Troublemaker Firestarter, Fowl Feathered Review, The Ravens Perch, 10 By 10 Flash, Waffle Fried, House of Arcanum, Synchronized Chaos, Well Read Magazine, Hidden Peak Press, and Third Street Review. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.