let me tell you

let me tell you exactly about a girl like me
stepping out of the elevator for my cigarette break, this burly older man steps in line with me, and begins a completely unsolicited conversation about the magazine company i work for, whose masthead is listed in the elevator.
he says he’s polish. his cheeks are red and his goatee is disturbingly white and straight-bristled. he looks like santa claus’s hard-partying brother. as we exit the building, i light up my cigarette and prepare to walk away, having answered in short responses his questions about the company. but he persists, explaining he was once a journalist in poland, and that he rode the trans-siberian railroad once, back in the grandeur of the soviet era.
this all seems normal. until he leans far too close and says with a lecherous smile, “and i was traveling with a mistress, she was a girl just like you, a beautiful girl. she was wild! man was she -”
this is the point where i step back about a foot, a hard smile pulls across my face, and i say, “i’m sorry, i’m meeting someone. have a nice day.” i turn heel in my boots and stalk the other way.
for someone who always complains about letting people’s affronts shock me into a polite silence, i’m quite proud of the sudden instinct that drove me to walk away quite clearly uninterested in letting him finish that sentence. must be something in the air. something strong.