"you should smile more."

what a man said to me at work when I was already suffering enough.

credit: carlos3art on Instagram

I had barely slept the night before. Day two of my cycle is always the worst, and I was in the heat of it.

The heavy bleeding made me feel disgusting. The cramps were so intense I wanted to vomit. The patience I usually possessed became more difficult to find.

It didn’t help that the day dragged on. Slow day at work. Nothing to do but wait until I could go home.

He walked in with a pep in his step. Realizing that I was alone, a grin spread across his face.

I forced myself to stand up straight from the slouch I had adopted for comfort.

“Hello,” I said. “How are you?”

He looked at me. “I’m great, how about you?”

A cramp intensified in my abdomen, and I felt more blood soak into my pad. The Midol in my bag called my name.

“I’m good,” I replied, forcing a calm I didn’t actually feel.

“I bet you were waiting for me to come in, huh?” he said, really emphasizing how it was just him and I.

I silently asked the universe to make my co-worker return from the bathroom as soon as possible.

“Oh, you know it,” I replied with a slight shake of my head.

His eyes fell to my chest and lingered for a beat too long. I crossed my arms, trying to cover myself.

“Did you go there?”

A sigh of relief. I wore a gray sweatshirt with my college’s logo. My arms fell back to my sides.

“I did.”

“How was it?”

“Great.”

“When did you graduate?”

I hesitated to give the year. I didn’t want to give him a hint of my age.

“A few years ago.”

He paused for a moment. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Well, I actually went to school near there.”

His hands rested on the counter as he leaned in towards me. I could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. My jaw tightened as I took a step back.

I hated that there was nobody behind him.

“Oh, really?” I asked, uninterested.

“Yes. Years ago. You probably weren’t even alive yet.”

“Probably not,” I chuckled.

“It’s funny, I actually played baseball there…”

And there began a monologue of how much college baseball meant to him—still friends with people from that team, met his wife at a game, named his first son after his coach.

I nodded along. My fingers incessantly tapped against my legs. My stomach began singing a symphony from how hungry I was.

Finally, he turned to the menu posted on the wall. I looked at the time.

Two more hours, I told myself. You’re almost there.

He ordered. I walked around the counter to retrieve what he wanted. I felt his eyes follow my every step. I returned to find him fully leaning against the counter now.

“Would you like anything else?” I asked.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he responded.

Sweetheart. The nickname sent a shiver down my spine. I nodded anyway as I entered his items into the register. I opened a paper bag and began to place his items into it.

“Your dad lets you get tattoos?” he asked.

The rose tattoo on my arm peeked out from under my sleeve. The tattoo that, apparently, I needed my daddy to approve of.

Because I couldn’t possibly make such a permanent decision on my own.

I didn’t acknowledge his question.

“Will you be paying with cash or card?”

A card appeared in his hand. “Do you take American Express?”

“We do.”

“Awesome, because you didn’t before.”

Cool. Just pay and leave.

Of course, he didn’t know how to use the tap reader. He placed his card against it and pulled it away too soon.

You would think I was asking people to perform brain surgery with how much they struggle to hold their card against the reader for longer than two seconds.

“You have to hold it there a little bit longer,” I politely observed.

“Oh, sorry.” He tried again. Pulled his card away too soon. Noticed his mistake—just to make it for a third time.

I needed to get to the bathroom and refused to wait another second. I held out my hand.

“Here, let me do it.”

He handed his card to me, making sure his fingers grazed mine. I held his card against the reader.

The beep of the transaction going through was music to my ears.

The printer whirred. I grabbed his receipt and slipped it into his bag.

“You’re all set,” I said, a little too gleefully.

He opened his wallet and pulled out a couple singles. He kept his eyes on me as he dropped the bills into the tip jar.

“Thank you,” I said with a faint smile.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, taking his bag.

I stepped away from the counter to finally go to the bathroom. Just as I turned away, I heard his voice.

“You know, you should smile more. You’re a pretty girl.”

I laughed lightly. “Noted.”

He went through the door.

As I cleaned myself up in the bathroom, I thought about what I had really wanted to say to him.

Actually, sir, I don’t want to smile more. I have no reason to.

I’m in so much pain. I’ve been needing the bathroom for the last few minutes. Blood was beginning to soak into my leggings.

But you rambled on about your mundane life and forced me to hear it because it makes you feel good.

And you savored the fact that you had me to yourself.

You like the fact that I’m young. That I need to be nice. That I have to listen. You seriously think that you’re the most interesting person in the world.

And you expect me to stand here and actually give a fuck about what you say.

Let me tell you: I couldn’t care less about you or the stupid baseball team you were on. And I refuse to feel bad for saying that.

I am so sick of women always needing to be polite. Always needing to care. Always needing to stroke men’s egos.

And I can see how much you like it.

I just want you to come in, buy whatever it is your wife sent you here for, and get out.

That would make me smile.

Maybe try doing that next time.

I know better than to say any of this.

Instead, I do what I am expected to do.

Smile.

Because that’s what good girls do.