Page 121 - Contrast2015

You can imagine how this guy will hit you up already—
reading the bubblegum-pink cursive of your nametag with a
drunken confidence that isn’t fooling anyone. He’ll spit out
“Hey Deena,” in his foul, beer-smelling breath, and give you
this sideways perverted grin that makes you feel like you can
never rest easy in your first name again without feeling
someone’s dirty, longing, manipulative eyes wandering up
inside you to every place the imagination could take them.
You wished you never put your real name on the nametag
long ago—you’re starting to wish you never even applied for
this stupid job.

You thought you couldn’t lose anything by just serving
drinks—after all, you weren’t the one dancing, were you? You
were wrong. Even if it wasn’t the top of your breasts showing,
or the small of your back that every pervert this side of
Brooklyn had seen, it was your name. Deena, which has been
yours since your mama cried out “Geraldine!” back when you
were just the new baby with five big brothers—and your
daddy said that was an old lady’s name. Deena, that was your
parents’ night-time trumpet out into the Georgia sky, calling
you back home for a warm cookies and milk before you went
to sleep. Deena, that was your blue gingham dress you used to
wear to church, the strawberry milkshake you would order
each and every Friday, the diploma you took home the day
you graduated from high school. But as soon as they read out
that nametag, Deena was theirs to do with what they
pleased—and even you, 24-year-old, virgin, you—were theirs,
and they could, and would mentally finger-fuck for however
many nights they wanted, long after they finished their last
pint of Michelob and you’re back home in your sweats—you
can feel this somehow long after the late-night help takes
over.

| 119