Never Should Have Smiled
just another professional encounter gone south
His hand slid dangerously close to my ass as he sloppily whispered in my ear that he and his wife had never loved each other. “It wasn’t until I met you,” he told me, “that I realized.” I suppressed a gag.
When I met him, I believed the encounter would be professional. He’d been in the science writing industry for decades, both in newspapers and at research institutions, so he had lots of connections and, I assumed, lots of advice.
But this evening was going horribly awry. First, over what I believed to be a networking dinner, he derailed the conversation by asking what kind of drugs I liked to do. I responded by digging myself into a dark little hole, reverting to the insecurities of middle school and the only time in my life that I ever did drugs—college—when the social pressures were even worse than at age 13. My other ridiculous strategy for staving off what was quickly becoming a bad situation was to order another margarita.
After an hour and a half of halted conversation—me trying to steer it toward ideas of writing a book with a science faculty member at the university I work for and he trying to steer it toward my hair—I found myself jammed between him and another female science writer, oblivious to the wandering hand on the other side of her neighbor.
We had made our way to the bar where the local science writer crowd used to meet regularly before they discovered a much more hospitable setting. I was trapped against the wall in the middle of an infinitely long table of science writers. In the unmoving wooden bench I tried to turn my back on the person who thought he was my date, I tried to make new conversations, meet new people, network. That was, after all, the reason I was there. And I did do a bit of that, but I was knocking back the margaritas so fast I think I did a better job of slurring my words and embarassing myself.
I smiled sickeningly as he whispered into my ear about how the only reason they’d stayed together so long was because of the kids. I was trying to be compassionate, trying not to hurt him. But I still don’t have a good explanation for why I cared what he felt.
I contemplated crawling under the table, but that seemed too difficult and too obvious. I removed his hand, noticed his erection, and waited, the taste of vomit threatening the back of my throat.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the group began to break apart, like an agglomeration of oil particles in water being dispersed by the surfactant of time. I was beyond ready to go home to my then-fiancé who was waiting for me without expectations.
I let the man drive me to the train station despite his inebriation. Again and again I made decisions that night that were based on his emotional fragility. Maybe I was scared he’d give me a bad name in the world I was trying so hard to become a part of. Maybe I was afraid of enduring any kind of disappointment from him, afraid of what disappointment would look like on him. He leaned in for the feeling of me on his lips. I turned my cheek. I smiled. I’m still angry at myself, more than a year later, for smiling.
