“Ha-ha-ha,” he booms, voice thick. “Man like you? With that girl?”
He whistles low.
“I know what you’re doing later. Good for you.”
They all laugh.
Slap my back.
Like we’re sharing some private joke.
And I laugh too.
Because what else am I supposed to do?
But something sour crawls up my throat.
Because I know exactly what they’re picturing.
And it makes my skin itch.
They’re not seeing her.
Not really.
They’re imagining her naked.
Reducing her to a story they get to tell themselves about me.
Like she’s proof of my masculinity or something.
And suddenly the whole room feels slimy.
Like I climbed a ladder but stepped in something gross on the way up.
I glance across the room.
She’s laughing with Jim’s wife.
Graceful. Polished. Perfect.
Not a clue what these idiots are saying.
And I feel weirdly protective.
Weirdly pissed.
Like they don’t get to talk about her like that.
Even if they’re congratulating me.
Even if this is what “making it” looks like.
Because if this is success?—
Why does it feel like I need another shower?
I’m halfway through the new product targeting slide deck when my BlackBerry buzzes.
