A Lumpy Black Garbage Bag

There’s a young looking man who likes to sit in the VIP corner booth by the bar with a few favorites. He’s got dark, slicked back straight hair and a deep widow’s peak that reminds of Dracula. This weekend, I was staring at that booth trying to deduce what the strange lumpy black trash bag on the seat might be. Lately I’ve been listening to a lot of True Crime podcasts, so my second thought was, “is that a body?” Maybe the thought was too cavalier, considering how many sex workers disappear and how few of their stories make headlines, still the thought crossed my mind.

I went up to the booth, and sure enough, Young Dracula was the owner of the mysterious garbage bag. He was standing, looking at everyone with his arms crossed. It wasn’t judgmental so much as social awkwardness. I leaned in.

Me: Looking for anyone in particular?

Him: No, just looking around.

Me: Want some company, or would you rather have alone time?

Him: Alone time for now, but what’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here. How long have you been working for?

Me: I’m Selena. I’ve been here a few months now.

Him: Nice to meet you. Timothy.

Me: Nice to meet you, Timothy.

Him: Pick a color: red, white, or pink— preferably white.

He leaned to look into his bag.

Me: White.

He handed me a long clear plastic box with a white rose.

Me: Aw thank you! You made my Valentine’s Day. Can I give you a hug?

He looked uncomfortable, but not entirely against the concept.

Him: Oh... Sure.

He leaned in stiffly. Some people are very unaccustomed to touch. I can understand, it’s intimate. I’m constantly touching and being touched at work. I recognize a world of thoughts and desires conveyed in a single embrace. I’m hypersensitive, and when I don’t want to be touched, I freeze up. Even platonic touch feels like an assault when it’s contact I haven’t consented to. But to dance, is to share this closeness constantly, unabashedly. I hugged him, and he accepted it. And I accepted my rose.