In Someone Else's Eyes

He was cooking and I was standing by, chatting aimlessly. He needed the olive oil. I leaned into the counter to get out of his way. He passed around me, feeling my butt ever so casually. He did not grip or press. His hand went to my bottom the way I would put my hand on a shoulder or a back: to tell someone was there. Ever so slightly his hand lingered on my derrière, hardly enough to notice, insufficient to call harassment charges. He took the olive oil from the shelf and returned to cooking. I continued chatting aimlessly.

At age 23, no man had ever made a pass at me. Now one felt my ass and I felt beautiful. He was handsome, elegant and probably always treated women like divine creatures. I was the only female there and appreciated his gesture as an individual compliment. For as long as the memory lasts, I can see myself as beautiful, because he did.