It was rush hour, so I was standing directly in front of your seat as I tried to read my book without falling over. You tapped my hand that was clutching my book and I jumped.
“What’s that book about?” you asked.
I stared blankly at you. “You can probably read the description on the back from where you’re sitting,” I said, and held the book higher, blocking my face.
A minute later… you tapped my hand again.
“WHAT!” I demanded. People were now staring.
“That book sounds really interesting. Can I take you out sometime? I’d love to buy you dinner.”
“NO, I DO NOT WANT TO GO OUT WITH YOU,” I said as loudly as possible in case you were about to act even weirder.
I backed away from you, slowly, and got off at the next stop.
There were a couple of things I was hoping to tell you, though, and I would have, had you not completely creeped me out, invaded my personal space, and embarrassed me on a crowded train.
Those things are:
1) I am reading. That means I don’t want to talk to you.
2) Don’t touch my hand. Don’t. Ever. Touch. Me.
3) IN WHAT WORLD WOULD ANY SANE WOMAN SAY YES TO A DINNER DATE WITH A CREEPY STRANGER WHO ASKED ABOUT HER BOOK ON THE TRAIN?
4) Stop it.
5) I was reading The Handmaid’s Tale. You will never understand.
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