How To Fail at Flirting

by Denise Williams

In my little office, I could control things. I’d let those four walls become my whole world, and I didn’t know who I would be without them.

He’d twisted my arm behind my back, slamming it into the wooden podium with a fast jerk, and I yelped. To anyone walking by, it would look like he was hugging me, but pain radiated up my arm from the impact. “You practically fell into the kid’s lap.” His face inches from mine, he’d pecked the tip of my nose with a smirk as he twisted my wrist with more force. He dropped a kiss to my mouth after that, biting my lower lip before sucking on it. “You’re hurting me, and people are right outside.” After a moment of tense silence—the only sound the ticking clock—he’d laughed, a small caustic sound. “What? You worried they’ll lose respect for you? Believe me, if you always act like you did today, they already have.” He’d released my arm, letting it fall at my side, and told me he’d see me after work, walking out like nothing had happened.

Somewhere in the middle of this conversation, I’d forgotten I was against the entire premise.

“Sure. And it should go without saying, but try not to throw up on him. It’s been a long time since you dated, but just for the record, that’s too casual.”

I sometimes didn’t know where I fit. I remembered Felicia’s sister telling me I had “good hair,” which I thought was a compliment until I realized that meant my best friend’s hair, thicker and kinkier than mine, wasn’t good. My high school boyfriend told me his mom was fine with us dating because I wasn’t like other Black people.

Is there anything as satisfying as an empty inbox?

No, no there isn't.

I’d built my career by staying late, doing more, working longer hours than others, and leveraging everything I could. I didn’t regret it—I did, however, wonder who would read the paper with me when I was old and if I’d missed my window to have my own wriggling toddler. Thirty-three’s

“You’re a badass, hot-as-hell, fucking brilliant doctor, not some insecure high school girl. Man up!” “Do you know how rife with toxic masculinity the phrase man up is?” I challenged, mirroring her pose. “It implies that to be courageous is to be a man.”

“Okay, ovary up. Fallopian forward. Vulva with a vengeance.”

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I’d convinced myself it wasn’t abuse. I was educated, and I thought I knew better, so what was happening was something else. I’d thought it would get better, and when it didn’t, it was too late. I’d started to believe his lies, that I needed him. By the time I stopped believing the lies, I believed the threats.