Hattie

RW Franklin

So here’s the thing about men and me: there is no thing. They just don’t see me. My whole life I’ve been in the background. I like to imagine I have those captivating blue eyes with that contrasting black hair that shines blue in the right light. I like to look in the mirror and pretend I see an hourglass figure. Instead my muddled gray eyes see only the truth: dull graying hair and dimpled thick thighs that shake with every step.

In high school my parents always told me it was good that guys didn’t notice me because it meant I wouldn’t have to deal with temptation. What they never knew is that I never wanted the attention of just men. The problem there—I’ve never stood out to women either.

I was taught to keep my head down and now that I’m not living at home, it’s hard to untrain myself from those teachings. I want to wear fire red lipstick and show cleavage. I want my skirt to slide up my ham-sized thighs when I sit down.

“What are you working on?” The voice near my ear startles me. I turn to find brown eyes and brown skin close to me. I remove the AirPods streaming music straight into my consciousness 39

and the sounds of the diner spill in.

“An essay.” I say and bow my eyes as if I’m ashamed he caught me in the act of bearing my soul for Dame Magazine which may or may not accept my piece.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you, but you looked so intense that I thought you might need to take a break.” He stands up straighter and puts his hands in his pockets. A small smile dances on my lips.

“OK.” I say. He motions toward the bench across from me and I nod.

“I’m Charles.” He says as he sits down.

“Hattie.” I say. He smiles and I try to determine what game he’s playing.

“What kind of essay are you working on?” He asks.

“A personal essay.” I say and slip my straw between my lips. He rests his arms on the table. His fingers play with the edges of the paper menu. It’s the kind of menu that has a line drawing on the back for kids to color when they start to drive their parents crazy.

“You write for a living or is this just something you do on the side?” His hands look soft. His nails are trimmed neat—rounded edges that end just below his fingertips. I wonder how his fingers would feel against my skin.

“For now, I do it on the side, but maybe one day…” I clasp my fingers under the table and squeeze then twist. I pull my lips into a thin line and then try to relax them again. I look up at his face and his eyes are looking straight into mine. He has what my aunt would call “kind eyes”.

“My sister is a freelance writer.” He says. “She could maybe give you a few pointers on how to make it a full-time career. If you’d be interested in talking to her, I’m sure I could give her 40

your number.” This pulls a smile from me. I doubt he has a sister that writes, but what a smooth way of asking for my number.

“Maybe. What kind of writing does she do?” I take another sip of my pop and am pleased with myself for thinking on my feet and not just saying yes.

“She writes mostly travel articles. ‘10 best places to travel this winter’, that sort of thing.” His lips are full and have just the softest touch of pink. Would they tickle my neck or cause it to burn? His teeth are white. Does he bite hard? I nod my understanding.

“That’s cool.” I decide to stop beating around the bush. “OK, so what exactly are you doing?”

The corners of his eyes pinch. His head cocks slightly to the side. “What do you mean?”

I look around the room for watching eyes—his group of buddies waiting for him to complete some sort of dare—but the other diners are uninterested.

“I know I’m not that interesting, especially not for you to just come sit down randomly with me. So what is it? What’s the deal?” His mouth hangs open for a second. His tongue is juicy and red. I want to bite into it like a ripe strawberry. He closes his mouth and laughs looking down at his hands.

“OK, you caught me.” A-ha! I think to myself. “I was sitting over there watching you work and you just looked so concentrated and…” He pauses and I look up. He blinks and I feel like it happens in slow motion as my eyes travel back down to his mouth. “…beautiful.” He finishes with a shrug. “So I took a chance and came over to talk to you.”

I like to imagine his name is Charles. Charles and Hattie. They go together, right? If only Charles was real. Well, he is real, but I don’t know his name and I certainly have never spoken to him. 41

His skin is real. His eyes are real. His mouth, oh his delicious mouth, that is definitely real. His hands, with their manicured nails and soft skin, are real.

He always leaves at least a one seat gap between us at the bar of the restaurant where we both like to work. I work silently on my laptop. He works silently on his. I know he wants more just like I do. I sneak a glance.

“Can I get you a refill?” He looks my way as the waitress reaches for my glass. My head snaps forward.

“Sure.” I say and go back to typing.

See the thing about me is: there is no thing.