Thursday August 11, 2016
A facebook post
A regular at a specialty beer restaurant I worked at the summer I was twenty-three, in a pinstripe suit with greying blonde hair, scanned my body leisurely from head to toe like he was examining a pineapple in the produce isle – is this one good enough to eat?
“What’s your background?” he narrowed his eyes.
“Canadian,” In the thick of a lunch rush; I was trying to remember what the table beside them had ordered to drink. I started to walk away and he caught my wrist.
“No sweetheart, what’s your background. Where are your parents from?” My eyes shot to his hand on me, a snakebite shooting up my arm.