Misseducated

A Night Out On The Town, Part 1

Oct 5, 202400:11:43Tap to summarize

Hello Wonderful Readers,I’m struggling to write to you right now. I was on a bender until 3 am this morning, and last night was filled with so many juicy details that it will take me at least a couple of weeks to tell you all about it.Of course, a new guy has entered my life, and I’m nervous to write about him because he reads my work and is supportive of me. As you know, in the recent months of writing Misseducated, I’ve been burned by my own work much more than I hoped, and it has hurt. Yet, somehow, I have to believe that my work matters enough to keep going. And that leads me to the first part of this story I’ve got for you here. It’s the part of last night that sticks out to me the most.Last night, I woke up from a power nap at about 8:30 pm. I had plans to meet up with Arturo (yes, the new man) at a Jazz Club later in the evening. He’s kind of a night owl, so I was thrilled when I woke up bursting with energy. I was ready to take on whatever the night had in store.All you need to know about Arturo is that he’s 35, divorced, and from Los Bosques, an upper-class suburb of Mexico City. He also lives in Polanco and works at Google Mexico City office in Las Lomas. We met on Raya and have had a couple of dates together which have gone quite well. So well that, last night, he invited me to meet him at the Jazz Club, Casa Franca, in Roma Norte after he finished a late dinner with his coworkers.Yesterday, we had been texting in Spanish:Arturo, 5:57 pm: See you at Casa Franca? I’ll let you know when to get there.Tash, 6:01 pm: Sounds good. See you there and enjoy your dinner!As 9 pm rolled around, I was flailing around my apartment, desperate to make myself look as hot as humanly possible. I know I’m not supposed to get myself glammed up for a night out solely for the pursuit of a man (thank you, Cindy Gallop), but just like any bad feminist, I was embracing the fact that rules exist to be broken. Luckily, I had lined up drinks with a female friend to keep myself distracted from Arturo until the moment we were to meet.I messaged him on the way to the cocktail bar to meet my female friend,Tash, 9:48 pm: Hey, Arturo! What time should I meet you at Casa Franca?And then I emotionally sat on my hands. And I waited.My female friend and I ran into some other friends at the cocktail bar. Then we went out for pizza. Then we went to yet another bar. While I was sitting there, I admit I was being a terrible friend. I was only half-paying-attention to what they were all saying. It’s early October. It's cuffing season. I am wrestling with myself inside because I know that I need to lock a man down (only metaphorically, of course) before the winter sets in. However shall I make it through these upcoming cold months alone? However shall I procreate and create a plethora of healthy, rosy-cheeked children? My body is barking at me. In this economy? Not even my logical business-school-educated brain can argue with my urge to get knocked the f**k up. This is biology at its best; at its strongest.I checked my phone at 11:26 pm. Not a word from Arturo. Not a peep. It had been a whole hour and a half. As I sipped on my passion-fruit-laced kombucha with a salt rim, I wondered: Was Arturo going to message me back? He had seemed nice until now. Maybe he got too drunk at dinner? Maybe he’d picked up another hotter girl at Casa Franca already? Maybe he didn’t want me to come after all?You know, I’ve been single for a while. And that’s because, well, I don’t know. There’s got to be something wrong with me. I shouldn’t have sent him that very forward message asking him when he’d be at Casa Franca. I’m too needy and desperate, and men can smell it.I started to get upset. I turned to my friends for consolation.“Treat him like a candidate for a job interview,” one of my friends advised me. “If you were interviewing a candidate for a job, and they showed up super later or didn’t show up at all, would you stand for that? No! You’d never hire them.”We laughed it off, and something else very exciting happened that I will tell you about next week. But as time went on, I got more and more anxious. Clearly, Arturo didn’t want to see me. Why couldn’t he have just told the truth in the first place instead of pretending? I couldn’t bring myself to check my phone again, just to be trodden down further that Arturo hadn’t messaged me. I would bring all of this up with my therapist in our next session. If this guy wasn’t going to meet my needs, well, then I was ready to give up on us getting to know each other. To numb the pain of it all, I got another round of drinks with my friends.It was 12:09 am before I checked my phone again.Arturo, 11:46 pm: We’ve been here a while. Are you coming to Casa Franca?My hands shook as I read the message. I accidentally dropped my phone smack on the table. The ice in our cocktail glasses wobbled. Arturo had messaged me. And I had been so busy wallowing in my story of him not being interested, or of him finding someone better than me, or not caring about me, that I hadn’t done the damn simple task of checking in with him on my phone.As soon as I saw his message, I rejoiced with my friends. Arturo wasn’t a complete a*****e after all. And maybe, well, I had been being a bit dramatic. I would leave my deep-seated worries about my self-worth for another time because he had requested my presence.I hurried my friends through the end of their conversation. We quickly got the bill. They walked me over to Casa Franca, and after a couple of trips through the various rooms (which I will also tell you about another time because I ran into one of my exes from On Dating Mexican Men), I finally found Arturo and his coworkers.It was sometime past 12:30 am when we finally hugged each other hello. Then Arturo turned to me, and he said,“I’m so glad you came. I was beginning to think it was too late. I was worried you had already gone to sleep and weren’t going to make it. It’s so good to see you. I’m so glad you came.”His words took me aback. They struck a chord. I puzzled to myself in that moment, again distracted as we caught up with each other about how our day had been.After all the anxiety and the trips through the realms of self-worth that I had dipped into in my own mind, here was this perfectly nice, if not also imperfect, guy standing in front of me. Somewhere along the way, between the hundreds of hours of Instagram reels I had consumed and the narratives about the opposite sex that I had bombarded myself with, I forgot that on the other end of the phone was also another living human person. And that if I wanted to get to know this person, I would have to meet them where they were. Maybe that meant compromising. Maybe that meant being patient. But without a doubt, it meant that I needed to ground myself in my reality and not fall into old, unhealthy stories of how I was treated in the past. It meant not having silly, made-up expectations of a man or any human and how they should show up for me in any given situation.And yet, in my experience of entrenched loneliness and questioning my own worthiness of connection, I had accidentally left him hanging. And I had even transferred that instability and potential for disconnection onto him. My limited story of myself had almost become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Wading through the trash of my information diet and obsessing over my own emotions and ability to connect with others had left me isolated. To the point where I could hardly afford a tiny inch in the corner of my brain to consider the experience of another person, much less a person seeking a deeper connection with me. We had almost passed each other like ships in the night.It reminds me of a fascinating TED Talk I watched a couple of years ago with psychologist Dr. Guy Winch. In the story, Winch shares that he always calls his twin brother on their birthday. That is, until one year, when his birthday rolled around, his twin brother didn’t call. During his talk, Winch says,“That night was one of the saddest and longest nights of my life.”That night, he makes up all kinds of stories about how he doesn’t matter to his brother anymore and how they’ve grown apart irreparably. The next day, Winch wakes up and realizes that he had accidentally kicked the phone off the hook the night before. When he realizes this, he puts it back on the ringer, and his brother calls him immediately. His brother had been calling and calling him the whole time, panicking for over a day.“It was the longest and saddest night of his life as well.”Disconnection. That’s what our questioning of our self-worth and loneliness can bring us to. Meeting Arturo at the Jazz Club made it clear to me just how much our own perceptions of lovability ...

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How to Help Someone in an Abusive Relationship

Sep 27, 202400:31:06Tap to summarize

Hello everyone!This week I’m sharing an interview with Dr. Tarra Bates-Duford about how to help someone in an abusive relationship. Below you’ll find a summary of our key talking points, and then the full transcript of our discussion so you can read along.I hope you find this informative, and that it comes in handy one day. Please share the episode and article with anyone you think it would help. Love, Tash 💌 ✍️How to Help Someone in an Abusive RelationshipDiscussion with Dr. Tarra Bates-Duford, PhD, a forensic psychologist specializing in familial dysfunctions and trauma. You can find her on LinkedIn and Instagram. What is the definition of domestic violence?Domestic violence is a pattern of intentional violent or aggressive behavior. It can be physical, sexual and verbal against a close family member or romantic partner.What are the main misconceptions about domestic violence?* That the individual can leave (In reality, they often can’t).* That they’re choosing to remain in the relationship (In reality, they may not have a choice).* That it doesn’t happen in affluent communities (In reality, it can happen to anyone, from all walks of life, religions, relationship types, and sexual orientations).How do abusive relationships often begin?* They often begin with the depreciation of a person and mean-spirited jokes, then gradual isolation:* E.g. “You’re stupid. You don’t do well on your own. Those people aren’t your friends. You’re so gullible. Left to your own devices, bad things could happen.”* They suggest the person can’t do anything right, and that they would be safer if they gave control and decision-making over to their more knowledgeable partner or family member.* Gradually the tone changes and because we accepted their language as a joke, it feels inconsistent and like too big of a deal to bring up now.* Over time, it can escalate into violence and fears for their safety or their children’s safety.What traits do abusive partners often have?* They are usually insecure people who struggle with power.* They tend to be overlooked.* They may not be taken seriously in their own lives, so they look for people they can exert power over to feel validated.* They are trying to compensate for feelings of powerlessness and helplessness.What traits can victims of abuse relationships have?* Marginalization, or growing up in a toxic family* A history of domestic violence, maladaptive behavior, or dysfunction in their own family* Unless we learn how to manage this or have something to compare it to, we may subconsciously try to replicate the environment that we are familiar with and rebuild dysfunctional families ourselves.* Lack of a father figure growing up can lead to a controlling idea of what a father is that the victim confuses with love e.g., “I don’t want you to have that. I don’t want you to wear that.”What are the signs of an abusive relationship?* Your partner makes you feel less than, not valuable, not worthy.* If you're constantly trying to fulfill the need of your partner without that person trying to meet your needs. There is no compromise. It's either this way or the highway.* You do not have a voice in your relationship.How can you stop early signs of relationship abuse?* Have clear deal-breakers and personal boundaries that you enforce.* E.g. Say “I do not tolerate racial comments, even jokingly. I do not accept language like this, not even in jest.”* The Camel Exercise: Imagine a two-humped camel and the straw that broke the camel’s back. What you're willing to accept is one hump and what you're not willing to accept is the straw between them, or the things in your life that you are unwilling to compromise on. Beware of comments or language that are another straw on your camel’s back that you don’t accept.* Announce and assert your boundaries to eliminate confusion when someone has crossed the line. If you have boundaries that have not been announced, you don't have boundaries because people don't know where you end, and they begin.* Do not violate your own boundaries. From this, an abusive partner will realize that your boundaries are permeable and that they don’t mean anything.* If you’re able to enforce your own boundaries, an abusive person will likely not remain close to you in your life, and eliminate themselves, which is what you want. And this can help you give space to healthier people and relationships in your life.* Reflect on your experiences in your relationship: if a friend came to you and said she was having a similar issue that you’re having, what advice would you give to her? Would her relationship sound abusive to you?How can you help someone in an abusive relationship as a friend or bystander?* Encourage that person to empower themselves, and create a safety plan (see below for details).* Don’t “add to” the victim experience by pressurizing them. If you give controlling commands e.g. “You need to leave that relationship,” what distinguishes you from the abuser? Instead, you have to create a distinct voice that is totally different from the person abusing the victim.* Don't put demands e.g. “If you don't do leave him, then don't even bother contacting me again.” Don't give ultimatums. Ultimatums suggest that your love is contingent upon what that survivor is willing and unwilling to do.* Remember that just because you tell them to leave their relationship doesn’t mean that it’s safe for them to do so.* Remember that when someone is about to end or leave an abusive relationship, it’s the most dangerous time.* Anticipate what you don’t know. If you’re suggesting they leave, where should they leave to? Or if they have kids, leave and go where? Do what? What do we do about food, income and shelter? Be able to provide some real resources instead of demanding them to leave.* Have them keep someone in the know, like a close friend who knows their schedule, who will realize if anything happens outside the norm.What should you include in a safety plan?* It’s a written-out or agreed-upon plan on how to leave an abusive relationship.* It describes when and how the victim can leave in ways that might be safe e.g. when their partner is sleeping or out of town.* It could involve:* Plans to make separate keys for the car* Packing bags* Pacing belongings in other locations so you’re not fumbling around the house trying to find things when you leave* Stashing money somewhere, in case your joint bank account is no longer available to you* Having cash so they can’t track your credit card purchases* Remaining in contact with a friend the abusive partner doesn’t know about, where the victim could stay and hide at that house* Having the numbers to case managers and Domestic Violence shelters.* A good safety plan also includes a lot of alternatives, including plans for picking up the children from school, and what to do if the victim needs to get out of their house quickly.How can we stop abusive relationships from happening in society?* Hold perpetrators more accountable for their actions, not just send them to jail for a couple of hours to cool off.* Understand that more than our spoken language, it’s our unspoken language that impacts our children. We may be teaching our children these maladaptive relationship patterns without realizing what we’re teaching them.What else should we know about sexual abuse in relationships?* It can happen at any relationship stage, and it doesn’t matter if you’re married or not married, if you know the person or not. If you say no, and you’re not interested in engaging in sexual activity, it’s still no. No one has the right to violate you and disrespect your boundaries.* Some people think it’s different for married couples because they see marriage as some sort of ownership, instead of a partnership.How might you figure out if what you’re experiencing is relationship abuse?* Imagine that instead of yourself, a friend is recounting her experiences to you like the ones that you’ve had in your relationship. What would you say to your friend about her situation?Podcast Interview TranscriptTash: Hello, it's Tash Doherty and today I have a very important episode of Misseducated.I actually conducted this interview with Dr. Tarra Bates-Duford about three years ago, but given the headlines around Cassie Ventura and Gisèle Pelicot, I think it's really important that we focus on this issue of: how do we help somebody who's experiencing domestic violence? And what can we do about it as bystanders?The reason why I did not publish this episode originally was that when I interviewed Dr. Tarra Bates-Duford in 2021, I was also experiencing very severe PTSD following a very traumatic experience. So finally, I think now after three years, this story deserves to be told and she has some incredible tips on how we c...

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A Series Of Unfortunate Events

Sep 20, 202400:07:04Tap to summarize

Dear Wonderful Readers,I was looking forward to updating you with the next part of my story. Until s**t went down on the internet. (See recent weeks here and here).Given that this s**t went down in the last 48 hours, I haven’t had the chance to process things properly yet. However, I was still determined to write something for you today. Luckily, I also have one exciting update for you that I hope will be a strong metaphorical band-aid over this situation for us all.Without meaning to, this week, my life turned into a very dramatic and scary telenovela. Perhaps I was asking for it by writing about my love life in Mexico with no filter and very thin guises of anonymity for the other characters. But to be honest, the Instagram harassment and the casual threat to my personal safety have put a downer on the whole situation. I had to confirm that these people don’t know where I live. Guess what that did to my nervous system and my latent PTSD? Not good things! Lol. Don’t worry, I know who they are and why they’re mad. But it’s a bummer because the story was just getting juicy!Many of you have contacted me to say how much you loved my stories these last couple of weeks, and for that, I am truly grateful and inspired to keep going. However, when the haters mount up, the amount of b******t I am experiencing starts to tally and counteract the good. If this newsletter paid me a s**t ton of money, which I hope it will one day, then maybe I wouldn’t care. But right now, as a labor of love, it starts to hurt when people keep lobbing daggers at me through the screen with expert precision. I will be the first to admit that I am not perfect. My flaws include having far too much curiosity for my own good, a propensity to meddle in other people’s business, and publishing whatever I want without giving much thought to who is reading it. Yet the closer my stories reflect my personal life, the stranger these situations become. Do I go on a date with a weirdo so I can write something off-piste about it? Do I pursue people and experiences to sensationalize them with spice later?This week was a hard lesson. I learned that I should not do things just for the story itself, especially if that would put me in danger. What happens when the characters confront me in real life? It’s a mindfuck. I have to develop a thicker skin while treading more carefully. As my woo-woo friends have suggested, this may be what the current full-moon-eclipse is trying to teach me (Still, don’t ask me about astrology; I know nothing about it.).But ultimately, I do love writing for you all. Especially in recent weeks, I have absolutely loved these little serialized chapters. You get to read a bit more of the same story each week, and the momentum is exciting because I have a clear sense of what I’ll reveal next. That keeps me on my toes with all of you. I want to keep that cadence going, but as you can tell, I’ve had quite a rough week. So hopefully, next week we can start again with a new series of mischief I’ve been up to.However, not all hope is lost. Here are some things that have been bringing me back to life:* Reaching out to all my closest friends in Mexico. Thank you all for being an incredible source of emotional support and helping me through with your witty and sometimes ridiculous reflections.* Getting drunk with said friends, catching up on all the gossip we’ve missed and laughing a lot to help take my mind off things.* Hugging myself. It’s the best way I’ve found to give myself compassion thanks to Dr. Kristin Neff.* Channeling the strength of my ancestors. Do you know how f*****g tough you have to be to survive the Irish winters? Before electricity and central heating? Part of my family has lived in Donegal for probably thousands of years. Those people, the women especially, are tough as nails. Their strength is part of me.* Cleansing everything. I exorcised all the bad energy in my house by opening all the windows and burning copal, and then sage, which I originally got from the Taos pueblo in New Mexico. I feel witchy and lighter. Lastly, before I share the exciting update, I want to comment on how we treat women in our world. It is disappointing to me that some people like to blame women for men’s bad behavior. What about holding the men accountable for their actions? What about some self-reflection? Using a woman as a scapegoat, blaming her for everything and calling her a liar is old news, and it’s childish.I used to blame women for things or think that they were just being inconvenient and difficult when they spoke their minds. That was until the Harvey Weinstein and Larry Nassar cases convinced me otherwise. It was shocking to me that while many young women in each case were assaulted by the same person, a big reason why they didn’t come forward is because they thought no one would believe them. However, false reporting for rape, for example, is estimated to be between 2-8% of accusations. That means we should believe other women about 92-98% of the time. So, let’s bend the moral arch of the universe a tiny bit. Let’s start believing other women, rather than blaming them. How about that?Anyway, that’s more than enough of that. The good news is that my head is bloody but unbowed, probably because a quarter of my blood comes from generations of stalwart Irish women. Now we can move onto something much more interesting:The Exciting Update: Launching “Ask Tash 💁‍♀️”Today, I’m very excited to launch an experimental section of Misseducated called “Ask Tash.” It’s a new and special way that I can connect with all of you, and the concept is simple. Like an advice column, you can email me any question to misseducatedtash@gmail.com, and I will answer it for you as honestly and openly as possible. If you would like, with your permission and anonymization, you have the option of me publishing your question with my response on Misseducated as well.You can also find “Ask Tash” on the Misseducated homepage.Yay!Love you all. Thank you, and we will start a new series next week, I hope,Tash💌 ✍️Related Posts from Misseducated This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit misseducated.substack.com/subscribe

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The Hot Waiter

Sep 6, 2024Tap to summarize

✨ I’ve missed writing for you! I think you’ll like this story… ✨I will give my number to the hot waiter at this restaurant. But this dinner is not my typical Wednesday night, and it’s far from over.The light in the restaurant is deep and gold. Low beams radiate out over the main dining area. Impeccably dressed people sit on wood-framed chairs and silently drag their spoons across plates of mole. My dark rouge lipstick stains the thin curve of my wine glass as I take a sip. After I put the glass down, I can’t help but run my hands over the hazelnut table, sturdy yet tantalizing. Five other glasses of various shapes, sizes, and colors sit there, waiting for me to work through them. I am sharing the wine pairing with my father. I had an early shot of tequila and a cocktail. I have the sneaking suspicion that I am a little too loose.I am wearing all black. I wanted to look thin and be comfortable but also look hot. A short cashmere turtleneck dress and a blazer with gold buttons. High-laced boots. The top part of my hair is in a thin braid. I decorated myself with the trimmings of gold necklaces and rings, my fancy jewelry which I never wear in Mexico. But I am wearing them tonight and pulling out all the punches, because we are dining at Quintonil, one of the fanciest and most expensive restaurants in the whole of Mexico City.I called, emailed, and confirmed our reservation over a month ago. Along with my father, my mother and aunt are also here to celebrate my aunt’s retirement. Everything has gone perfectly on their trip. The sexagenarians (i.e., the people in their sixties, my family members, lol) are ecstatic, yet I’m dwindling with the exhaustion of a five-day chaperone. All I have to do is make it through this dinner. It’s the peak of their trip. It’s the height of indulgence. And it’s the perfect second off.Yet, from the moment I walked into Quintonil, what can I say? I was already on the prowl. My period finished last week, which means I am about to ovulate if I’m not ovulating already. As I sip my wine again, I shake my head silently to myself in knowing shame. I am drowning in the intensity of my baby fever. As we trundle over fond memories of summer holidays, I had to admit it to myself. I was not just hungry for the most delicious, exquisite meal in the city. I was hungry for the aftertaste of man. (Or woman).I didn’t mean to get drunk. What happened was that my father wanted to order the wine pairing, but my mother insisted he can’t drink that much, or he will snore, and she won’t be able to sleep. My father passes me every half glass of wine he’s not allowed to finish. Across the pristine plates, well into the 6th course, my wine glasses look like the traffic jam we briefly got stuck in in the Uber on the way here. I sloppily joke with my aunt and my mother,“K-Keep your eye out for any single men between the ages of 25 and 40.”I guess my father pretends not to hear. My father places another thin glass of wine in my queue. The rain is pounding on the roof. I glance through the low, wide window at the lush, jungle-like garden beyond. The air is a balanced temperature. The trickling music, the elotes, and the lamb barbacoa melt together in front of me. I sit up straight. I try to keep it together.I’m not sure when he first comes to my attention. I notice him holding a tray and standing by the wall, almost hidden in the shadowed corner of the room. He has black hair tucked behind his ears and crafted stubble on his chin. In the shadows, it is hard to tell if his hair is salt-and-pepper. But it is gelled, definitely.The next moment, he is standing over me. He has brought me a gift. It is another plate of carefully manicured vegetables, this time with lush pink tuna, the catch of the day. The light salt of the fish. The creamy, spicy, lemony kick of yet another green sauce.Well, that is his job, isn’t it? To explain the dishes. To serve us the food. Is it just my imagination, or is he serving me first? His hands are thin. His skin is tan, and his fingers are rounded and rough. He leans over me. Our shoulders are almost touching. I feel a short shiver at the base of my back. I prop up my chin, resting on my hand, pretending to be elegant and oblivious.I’ve written about this before, but I can tell whether I want to have sex with a guy from the shape of his hands alone. And let me tell you: this waiter’s hands are incredibly f******e. There's no hair around the knuckles, but they look strong. He has the kind of hands that might lock me in the bathroom with him, I imagine. That might pour a 40-ingredient, 10-year-old warm, dark chocolate mole across the pale skin of my naked chest under the light of a single bulb. Before he pulls my hair back and f***s me, getting it everywhere. The ghost of my feigned innocence might lift out of my body. Because beneath all the pleasantries of the dinner table, I am a bad girl, and I know what I want.I look up from my plate and remember I am in the strange company of my family. I chuckle in silent shame as I narrow in on my goal. I want his attention. I want to chat him up. I’m not sure what is so hot about this. Yes, he is attractive in his long, tucked-in black shirt. But there is also something forbidden about it. Forbidden, because this is his place of work. Forbidden, because I am still presenting as a young girl, surrounded by the pomp of some of the wealthiest people in the world. Yet none of the tax loopholes or client contracts or ETF investment portfolios matter now. I still need sex. I still want sex. And I want to have sex with him.For me, the power dynamic sharpens the chemistry. It is his job to serve me. Not that I believe I deserve to be served. But this is the game we are playing. The societal game. I walk near him on the way to the bathroom (to freshen myself up and make sure I don’t look terrible). He is taller than me. We speak in Spanish as he shows me the way. Always on hand. Always there to please. Once I am alone, I gaze into the bathroom mirror. I confirm that my makeup is still on my face. My eyes are dark. My lips are still red. I think to myself,“You’re hot, too. You’ve got this.”When he serves the next meat course of wild boar, I tell him,“Conseguí mi residencia en Hidalgo.” (I got my Mexican residency in Hidalgo.)We have a 20-second conversation about the unique wild boar dishes of various Mexican states before he quickly excuses himself. He resumes his position, holding the tray beside the wall and standing in the shadows. I glance at him repeatedly when I can.As my family shares the last bites of the special cake they prepared for my aunt’s retirement, I say to her,“Here’s a phrase you might like. Chingatelo. As you know, chingar means to f**k. So if I tell you, chingatelo, it means f*****g finish the last bit on the plate.”The hot waiter happens to be hovering at that moment. He seems to giggle a bit.“You’re teaching them the slang,” he says to me, and I smile at him. Of course, I didn’t have the guts to tell him I learned that phrase from my barista ex-noviocitio (lover), another man of incredible talent and taste.The hot waiter serves me. He serves me again. And I watch as he leans over me and wipes away the tiny crumbs and drops of alcohol that I had spilled on the table in front of me. Of course, he wipes my area of the table first. I notice the thickness of his fingers. Is he enjoying this also? Does it excite him? I sit up straighter and look away as he loyally makes his way around the table, wiping the spaces in front of my aunt, my mother, and my father.As we finish up dessert, and he returns to the corner of the room, I catch the intensity of his gaze. Was that a slight grin? My heart quickens, chest pounding. I bite my lip. I know what I need to do. I reach into my tiny leather purse. I pull out a small white square of paper and a pen. I take the square of paper out a bit too early because my aunt and my parents need to keep talking about how marvelous their trip has been. And what a wonderful time they had. And I sit there like a fool with a blank square of paper in front of me.“I’ll order the Uber,” my father offers kindly. They stand up to leave at last.“One minute,” I say. I snag the pen and paper and head to the bathroom again. I stand at the round mirror beside the flickering Jasmin candle and the box of perfectly rolled-up hand towels. My hair is quite blonde in this light. Blonde enough. My makeup is still on my face. I’m not quite 30 years old. I still have some collagen, or so I hope. In the dim light of the sink, I scratch my pen across the tiny page. I write,Tash. +52 55 7435 8932.I fold the paper. I’m not sure how I am going to do this. I hesitate. Is this appropriate? Hitting on a man in his place of work? He’s not consenting to this. Am I just objectifying him, using him as my mental plaything? I am, aren’t I? Still, I’ve never been to Quintonil before. I have no intention of ever coming back. This is my only chance.I leave the bathroom. My family is nowhere to be seen, a...

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All episodes

A Night Out On The Town, Part 1

How to Help Someone in an Abusive Relationship

A Series Of Unfortunate Events

The Hot Waiter

Misseducated

All episodes

A Night Out On The Town, Part 1

How to Help Someone in an Abusive Relationship

A Series Of Unfortunate Events

The Hot Waiter