The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Palm Up, Fingers Curled by Abby Lewis

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Content Warning: sexual harrassment

               How Could This Have Happened?

“What’s your name?”

                                        “Claire.”
“Claire,” he repeats.

My name always sounded flat to me,
but when he says it, he lingers
on the vowel, drawing
                                    out the “air.”

It’s eerie, this feeling.

We stand in the middle of the double
entrance to the Knoxville Public Library;
two people, one coming—

                                                               one going.

“Where are you from, Claire?”

                                “It’s—” I pause, unsure
how to evade the question.
                                “It’s a ways away from here.
                               You probably don’t know the place.”

“I know a lot of places.”

He smiles, sticks his hands
in his pockets.

The library receptionist is watching us
                                                    through the glass door.

I can’t stop glancing at her.

“How far away is it?”

My eyes are pulled back to his face.

                                       “Oh, about an hour and a half,” I say,
                                       sure the information is useless.

There are a lot of places an hour
and a half away from where we stand.

I inch closer to the second set of doors,
                                         which lead outside.

“We’re friends, right?” he asks.

I nod, my gaze on the door,
               hands clenched to hide the tremble.

                                         I force my fists to unravel.
                                        “Sure. We’re friends, I guess.”

I look at him.
He smiles again.

His teeth are thin and yellow, like a rat’s.
They look brittle, as if they could fall out.

“I have a lot of friends who are girls.
I met them the same way I met you
                                                          just now.
You should come over sometime—

to my place, meet them. We can all
be friends
                   and have a good time, together.”

I don’t respond.

I put my hand on the outer door,
                                                  angle my body away from him.

The receptionist is standing now, watching.

The man on display with me
does not appear to notice our viewers.

He moves closer.

“What are you doing right now?” he asks.

His voice is low. He is bent slightly at the waist,
leaning his shoulders and face closer.

“Do you want to go with me to meet them?”

                                        Them. His friends.

He lifts his hand as if to touch my face.

                                        “I’m sorry,”

I stammer.

                                      “I have to go.”

I push open the door,
feel the rush of air and noise—
                 loud as the blood roaring in my ears.

I look back to see him shake his head, turn away.

I nearly trip down the concrete steps.
                      At my car, the books—
                                 thrown in the passenger seat.
                                       I climb in and lock the doors.
                                                Grip the steering wheel—
                                                               not so hard.
                                                                                       Breathe.

*                                               *                                                  *   

I’m not unnerved by what he said,
                but by how easy
                            he made it seem.

I could have left with him—
                                                  disappeared—
a simple thing, really.

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