May 01, 2016 9:30pm
Later, another older woman reaches through the driver side window and begins stroking my face:
“I’ve always told you that if I was a few years younger…”
And I think:
“No, what you used to say is you wish you had a daughter my age.”
May 01, 2016 7:55pm
“You’ve been working hard all day.”
“Yes, and my feet are killing me!”
“Well, my daughter here could rub them for you.”
“Ma’am, you wouldn’t want your daughter anywhere near my feet.”
It is afternoon and I am in my cubicle with a throbbing headache, so I have put my head down on my desk. Two hands begin massaging my neck then slide alongside my ears to work on my temples. I sit up and open my eyes.
Without turning around, I glance over at my coworker who shares the cubicle; he is unsuccessfully pretending that he is not seeing what is taking place.
The hands belong to Gail, the daughter of one of the directors of the company. She is a good-looking, shapely brunette with a large head, and smooth pale skin. Gail asks if her remedial massage is working. It is working, so I thank her. There is a final squeeze of my trapezius muscles, then she smiles and walks away.
I am concerned that word of this interaction will reach her father.