Trying to be Neutral

It's December. You're going to a party. It's a sit-down cocktail in a cozy restaurant. So you dress up a little, not too much, just enough. You put on a dash of make-up and plaster your usual smile. You know it’s not a night to practice your flirting skills. You won't bump into a handsome stranger. You won't have to give away your number. You won't sway without care in the dance floor. Because you're celebrating it with colleagues, a night of liquor and socializing. You had some expectations. That and nothing more.

A few rounds of vodka and you're drunk. It’s easy nowadays. You don't drink as much as you used to.  It was your bestfriend, like, three years ago. But you have long cut the friendship. Vodka is now your waterloo. You hate it yet you drink it anyway. 

It started with a random relationship quip. You just laughed. It's a joke, right? It's supposed to be. But he prodded on, insisted. He's hitting on you. You unconsciously knew. Suddenly you're at the receiving end of the bantering stick. You curse in your head. You want to roll your eyes and frown. But you don't. Because you work with him. Because you’re diplomatic even when you’re drunk. And because you're oh so good in faking a smile.

You just ride along. No, you don't give hints. You don't lead him on. You know the possibility is non-existent. As if. But he kept on closing the space, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, moving his hand across your broad back, constantly pulling your waist, forcing you into his flabby stomach.

You hate it. Damn it. You hate all the touching.

You wonder why he's getting physical. You didn't dress to impress. You're dressed like a ballerina. Sure, he knows you're a virgin—it’s an open secret anyway—and you don't have a boyfriend. But that doesn't make you loveless. How pathetic. You wonder too if you've unconsciously flirted with him, because you're a natural flirt, dahling. But you didn't. You didn't even meet his eye. You evaded him right off the bat.

You don't give a damn about the land he owns—it’s probably not even one-fourth of your inheritance. You secretly want to smack him in the face. Oh, you know how to do that. You have three brothers and a Dad who taught you.

And your colleagues teased you, posted photos, tagged you. They don't know. They will never know what you had to go through, what you felt, what nagged at the back of your head despite the dizzying effect of alcohol.

You've been harassed.

And you know this for a fact. It happened before. Different scenarios but the same effect. You remember because you cried in secret for days. It took you more than six months to tell someone—one person—about it. It scarred you.

So when it happened again, you got defensive. You move away. He calls you. You pretend not to hear. He teases you. You don't care. You don't talk to him. You don't spare a look. He disgusts you. You just want the party to end. You want to erase his existence. You want to forget.  

And the night is just fucked-up.

You wonder if you're in the wrong crowd to allow yourself such discomfort. You think of better happy things. Of better happy endings. You focus on your clique, your seniors. You focus on the games, the gifts. You focus on the photos you took. You focus on getting drunk—anything.

But you swear that if he does it again, you'll knee him. And that gives you a little amount of comfort. Somehow.