This Is How Our Bodies Are Made to Apologize

I was the girl who worked behind the counter at the skate shop. Never stepped on a skateboard, but could put one together like one of the boys. Grip tape, German ball bearings, Indy wheels, and Shorty hardware with a grip tape cut so clean the corner barber woulda looked twice. It was just me and him on the morning and afternoon shift. I wore thin worn polo shirts I bought at the thrift store, 'cause the vintage polyester hung different, and thin white cotton bras that I didn't know didn't always hide the dark outline of my areolas. I had my hat on backwards. My men's size 33 Girbauds hung just right on my ass and my black-and-white Airwalks had just got a new pair of extra-wide fat laces. He approached me from down the counter, walked over to where I was to grab a wrench, and looked down my shirt. I can see through it, he said and brushed my breast, and as his hand came back down I cringed and my shoulders shot forward, chest caving in on itself like a rose blooming inward. He stood in front of me, the wall of wrenches and shoelaces and skateboards behind me, and I had nowhere to go.