everyday

man drinking alone in a bar

everyday

try to be nice.

a few years ago

i was sitting alone

in a neighborhood bar

taking an hour

just an hour

to myself

away from the child

and the partner

and the house

and all the things.

i was writing in a notebook

rather intently.

i was drinking scotch.

i was having a good time.

then this guy comes up.

i have seen him around

some kind of hipster guy.

he praises me.

he smiles self-satisfactorily

as he describes me to me

tells me it is awesome

that i am sitting alone in a bar

drinking whiskey

writing in a notebook

and that gosh darn it

he just never sees that

and thinks it is awesome.

and so,

he just walks right through

the  quiet envelope

the peace

the internalness

of

my moment

my hour,

believing i will love this,

this invasion

of my mind,

space,

and moment

so that he can validate

to me the vignette

he has made me into

via his vain vision of the world .

because i should be so interested

in his delight and his opinion

and him

turning my moment

into an adorable trinket for his viewing

rather than a person’s obviously private

experience of herself .

but women must be available,

at the ready to receive

accessible

approachable,

so that some bro can turn me into a bauble.

would he approach

and interrupt a man

sitting alone in a bar, focused on his writing.

would he condescend

to tell a man in this situation

that he finds it so wonderful and delightful

to see him doing such an awesome thing.

would he describe the man to the man

as he another man sees the man?

No.

I think not.

funny thing is,

everyday

I’ll never be that

stereotype,

that iconic idea

that figure,

the one I have in my head

of the lone introverted

writer in the bar.

I will always be breaking that stereotype

reinventing it,

because I’m a brown person

a brown woman,

and writing alone in bars drinking scotch (actually)

is what solitary white males do,

apparently.

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