He said wanted to come back to New York to see me again, said he wanted to spend time with me. I let him kiss me goodbye outside of the Canal Street subway stop. After he left, my coworkers turned in their seats to stare, wondering why I was so important. I was wearing a hand-me-down sweater from my dad and no makeup, and I didn’t know what to say when he told me how much he admired my writing. I was eating fries from a McDonald’s bag when he appeared in front of me. He DMed me on Twitter to ask me out when I never answered, he asked someone to help him find my desk during his next visit to the office. So-and-so pursued me when I was twenty-four-years-old. His glasses slide slightly down his nose. When he winces, one of his shoulders rises higher than the other. My colleague takes no pleasure in dropping this bombshell. My pen skids across the page, a blue line slicing through my neat handwriting. So-and-so’s speaking agent severed ties with him over a year ago. There’s a turn in conversation, a dollop of gossip like whipped cream atop an apple pie. I am twenty-seven and I have expertise to offer. I am listening to the important people debate and I am taking notes, nodding professionally, sharing my opinion. Schedule a brainstorm about editorial policy. A notebook is splayed open on the conference table in front of me, defaced with the week’s to-do list.
I’m sitting in a meeting with people I need to impress. No one ever talks about how sexual harassment disrupts your ability to just do your damn job.
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