The European Proposal
A man I've never seen before hails me over. "Where are you from, beauty?" He asks.
I've played this game before, I think. I smile. "I'm from here." I say.
"From here? From New York?" He repeats, his european accent getting more defined the more I listen. He holds out his hand for mine. I hesitate. He gently takes my hand and begins to kiss up my arm, slowly, planting a soft kiss up, and up and up... "Are you married?" He asks. At this point the men around him are chuckling. Such a fun game for them! I pull my arm away as politely as I know how. I smile a big, fake, Fuck-You smile.
"No. Not married." I say, wishing that the facade I am putting forth would burst, spewing the acid I was holding in my chest all over the smiling faces of the older men who were listening intently to the bobbing of my chest as I breathed.
"Such a shame. A beauty like you... I bet you have men throwing themselves at your feet! Listen, beauty, I would marry you, no? Could I marry you? Would you think about my offer?" The men at the table chuckled again. "How old are you?" He asks.
"I'm 25." I say. "I'm sorry, but I have to get the orders from other tables. It was nice meeting you. I'll be back around to take any drink or food orders you guy may have, okay?"
I turn on my heel and busy myself with collecting other orders.
I feel conflicted about events like these. On the one hand, I am flattered by their advances. When men flirt with me I feel desired, beautiful, wanted. On the other hand, I feel invisible behind my tits and ass, at the mercy of my desire for tips.
I returned to the bar to drop off the orders I've written. "A man just proposed to me." I tell Lilly, my bartender. She looks at me and guffaws.
"Who?" She asks. I discreetly point to the men at the far table. "Gotcha." She says, and rolls her eyes. I smile, feeling each unsaid sarcastic comment rolling between the two of us while Lilly shakes a martini up as if she were gearing up to punch someone in the face.
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