An hour earlier, when I’d pointed at a rest stop and said “Hey, there’s a rest stop,” my mom told me to hold it.
Twelve minutes from the hotel, my brother’s girlfriend had to pee. I only grazed my head against the window as the family mini-van lurched into the first fast-food parking lot on our right. We hopped out of the car. Roxy looked like she was ready for a catalog photo shoot. I looked like an unmade bed. Against all better judgement and obsessive compulsions, I yearned for the refuge of the single-stall restroom. I hovered beside the cement door while I waited my turn.
Through my mom’s open car window, I heard my parents discussing the handful of national landmarks that were visible on the horizon. The capital building, which I’d pointed out only moments ago to insistent hushing, looked two-dimensional against the grey sky.
“Where’s the Washington Monument?”
“Right here in my jeans, honey.” An unattractive dirty blonde – the dirty kind of dirty – in a greasy french fry uniform was leaning against the back of the restaurant, where the pair of public bathrooms were concealed from the highway. I rolled my eyes away from him, but not quickly enough to miss the grin he flashed at me, one full of teeth the same color as his hair.
I don’t understand men. Or they don’t understand me. Or both. What is it going to take for all the skeeves in the world to finally learn: I AM NOT HOT. I’m cute. Like a pet. I’m sweet, when I feel like it. I’m pretty, in one of those unconventional ways, and only when I try. Yes, these jeans are snug. That means there’s only room for one in here.
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