When I arrive home I am sticky from beer, sweat, jagermeister, and too many eyes. I am exhausted by eyes, and semi-frequently, hands. Many men find it difficult to understand that we are new acquaintances.
When a waitress is taking your drink order, it is not customary to place your hand on the small of her back.
Nor does it belong on her hip when you’re passing by her.
Your eyes do not need to linger longer than a second or two on her breasts or her ass, because there’s not that much of them, and she knows you’ve already taken them in.
At the end of the night, she does not want to have a few drinks with you at your apartment or come back to your place and talk about that ‘Catcher in the Rye’ book that sits unopened on your shelf, because this isn’t her first rodeo and you’re not a particularly good looking cowboy.
She feels dirty.
And poor, because lord knows she doesn’t get tipped past midnight when everyone decides they’re too drunk to tip.
At the end of the night I want to step into the shower, stand under the water with my head down so I don’t drown, and feel