Waif

by Samantha Kolesnik

That was the crux of my oppressive experience with men in the flesh—the ones you wished would touch you never did, and the ones you never wanted to touch you did so without asking.

That was the scary part about men like Matt. They let their rages go so far before teetering over the edge of a cliff, looking at the consequences, and deciding to step back.

What made a man? Hatred for women, perhaps. If not hatred . . . then apathy. Utilitarianism. And so like my mother told me would happen, I walked the world of men alone, often discussing with other girls my age how to be a better product. A shinier product. Hot, wet, and ready.

Brittany’s arm had been around me and my head was on her shoulder. We could’ve been friends in the photo, but we weren’t, and the knowledge that we weren’t, I was paranoid would be clear as day. I panicked that people would see us touching each other in any way and think I was gay.