A man touches me and I cringe.
I don’t cringe because I don’t want him to touch me; I do want him to touch me. I cringe because his hand has grazed my belly rolls, which are soft and plentiful, and I don’t think my fat deposits were his intended target.
I cringe because I think he was aiming at my breasts and got a fistful of belly fat instead, and now I am embarrassed. Now I want to apologize. “I’m sorry,” I say as I take a step backward. I can’t do this.
The man is confused. He thinks he has done something wrong; he hasn’t — with the exception of his bad aim. If he hadn’t reminded me that my body has fat, then everything would be fine, but his touch on my stomach is too much to bear. It isn’t even his fault. He hasn’t complained. It’s all in my head.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I truly am. I am sorry that my body is too big and too soft and has fluffy fat deposits that make themselves available to be touched. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.