Having been, and then not outgrown
the idea of being unattractive, it was
with some surprise when I began to get hit on.
I was thirteen, walking home from school.
Two or three blocks away,
a man squealing by on a motorcycle began to slow down,
then suddenly gunned the engine.
When I glanced over, he was grinning like a skull,
and then he whistled.
I looked quickly away in horror,
not sure what I was fearful of,
but glad he was traveling in
the opposite direction.
I couldn’t believe it.
I looked down at myself.
What I saw was unremarkable:
I had on a black sleeveless shirt,
black-and-white plaid shorts, Doc Martens.
My hair was pulled back
into some careless nest.
My body wasn’t great. It wasn’t even really there.
Maybe he hadn’t meant me.
I was the only one walking, though.
But maybe I looked good. I checked again. I couldn’t tell, and
was shocked that the guy had been so much older than any of the
boys I had futile crushes on at school.
Motorcycles were cool, though, and by the time I reached home
I had decided to be flattered.