Floating

There is a gold fish where I work. He or she, as I have yet to find out which, is kept by themselves in a secluded room many visitors never find. Their tank is growing greener by the day and the water-level drops at a similar rate. It is not my job to feed them, but, seeing as I do not know whose job it is, I have secretly added it to my small list of tasks.

I look through neglected books for seven and a half hours of my day in an inn that, too, may not be found by visitors. I feel like we are a lot a like, this unnamed fish and I. Floating where we can in the spaces that we are allowed to, acknowledged only when it is convenient. I used to build my work space in the bright and the open, on the large, maple dining room table, but recently I have found myself in the worn, plush chair, forgotten like the house pet it sits beside. This way, we all know we are not alone.

Today was an odd day, yet somehow fitting for the type of week this has been. Minding my own in public spaces, I was hit on twice; once by a man and his speech, again by a man and his car. I am used to gazers. I have grown accustomed to being a woman and the repercussions that reap from that. I have learned to ignore the eager eyes searching for the nipple potentially peeking through my shirt. I am also used to gazing at accidents after they have happened, and the evidence they leave behind. What I am not used to is dealing with either of these head on, which made today an overwhelming one.

There is a pizza slash Mediterranean slash HBO TV show enthusiast joint that has a great slice for less than five bucks close to where I work. I had brought salad for lunch, but this time could not bring myself to eat it. Upon arriving, I was in good spirits. I was listening to music, it was a sunny day and, although I was not looking forward to going to the local fair for the third time this week, I had promised my sister, and knew I would still have fun.  Better still, there was only one other customer waiting for their order, meaning I would have more time to read my book before heading back to work.

“How are you?” He said.

“I’m good. How are you?” People are allowed to be polite.

“Good.”

I place my order.

“For here or to go?”

“Here.” I say.

“You should have said it was a fair day. Then I could have said, like you, because that’s how you look.”

My stomach churns.

“I’m just saying that. Even if you have a boyfriend, I’m just saying you look good.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

I take my seat on the opposite side of the room.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

“I was going to read, actually.”

He sits.

“Have you been down to the exhibition?”

“I was there the other day.”

“I work there.”

I take a bite of my food.

“Would you want to go with me to the exhibition, tomorrow, maybe?”

“I work until nine.”

“You could come after work.”

“That’s okay.”

“Okay. Would you be interested in a date somewhere else sometime?”

“I hate to be rude, but no. That’s okay.”

“Okay. That’s okay. I’ll take that as my loss, then.”

I turn my page, trying to focus on the ink and not his words.

“Are you looking for a friend? Even if we don’t hit it off we could still sit down, have a nice meal.”

“I have friends.”

“Maybe you could introduce me to one of your friends sometime.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends that are girls.”

“Oh, so you’re a tomboy? We would be perfect together. I was raised on a horse farm.”

“That’s interesting.”

His order is called, he gets up. “My name is Eric by the way. If you want to look me up.”

He gazes. I say nothing. He leaves. I have to force myself to finish my meal by planting my feet on the ground.

“How is everything?” The worker asks. She just started her shift.

“Good.”

“It’s nice and cool in here.” She notices my book. “Relaxing, too. Nice and peaceful.”

Peaceful. I think.

I leave after glancing around my car, making sure Eric is not lurking. I roll up my windows, turn on the AC. Everything is fine now. You’re okay.

I wait a while to turn onto the one-way street that will take me back to work. It is busy. Other people like to escape work for lunch as well, and I notice the decorations being strung for the Irish Festival happening this weekend. There is a break in the traffic that I am thankful for, and, almost as soon as I straighten my wheels, I am struck by a man who was parked on the side of the road, probably once just as thankful as I.

I sigh, pull over. My door does not open now, so I crawl to the passenger side. The man is waiting for me.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“You must have come out of the side street, there. I didn’t even see you.”

“Yes, I did.”

“This shit happens, eh? Life happens.”

There is no mention of insurance, but that’s what people do in these situations, isn’t it? I have never been here before.

“You don’t have to worry about your insurance.” I hear myself saying.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. ”

“Okay. Mine only got a few scratches, too.”

I climb back into my car.

When I get back to work, the door is locked. Everyone else has either gone home or are running errands, and I am thankful for this, because I hate crying in front of other people.

You’re not a dumb girl. I tell myself. You’re not a dumb girl, you’re not a dumb girl. But no matter how many times I say it, in this moment, I find it hard to believe.

Now, sitting next to the gold fish that swims with excitement when they see me, with half an hour left of the seven and a half hours I was supposed to work today, I am writing, and realizing that what is dumb is the thought that, as a woman, I find it hard to stand up for myself. Standing up for oneself is not polite and is not considered kind, but it’s a kindness to yourself, which is something that should not have taken me this long to understand.

I am young, but this excludes me from nothing. A lot of men think themselves innocent, incapable of doing wrong to those around them, whether this be through actions or words. I am an easy target for this, because I try to be a good person even when the other is clearly not. I used to think one could not be both kind and strong. Strong meant rough, kind, gentle. I wanted to be gentle. I am learning that it is more than possible to be both of these things, simultaneously. Strong when it is needed of you to be, but gentle at the same time, too.

The gold fish probably has a name that I have neglected to ask for, or maybe never has and was merely bought for the cosmetics of their pearly scales. Either way, I have named them Eric now. Names hold as much power as you are willing to give them, just like words, or people, or yourself.