He was hitting on me

Last night, on our way home, Janne stopped to talk with Aino on the phone. I waited out of earshot, on the corner of Esplanad and Mannerheimintie, and watched people walking by, most of whom were on the other side of the street.

This middle-aged guy crosses the street and comes up to me. He is obviously drunk, but his demeanor is gentle and quiet rather than slobbering and clumsy, so I don't feel wary or repulsed as he approaches. Only he comes too close, crossing the invisible boundary of my personal space. This is my first sign that something out of ordinary was happening.

It's kind of funny though, that it didn't hit me right away, after what he did next. He slowly leans towards me and rests his bald-shaven head against my cheek and looks up at me. I'm confused, but I figure he's just in that jolly, I-feel-close-to-everyone stage of drunkeness.

He says he is 'airing out' and nods backwards, towards what I assume is the bar he's been at. There are several bars in the direction he's indicated, but I suddenly realise he'd come from Hercules. Hercules is a gay bar and this guy is gay and he is hitting on me, I conclude. I notice that while earlier I'd been using my non-committal small talk vocabulary, I now stumble on words and my voice has acquired tones of uncertainty and bashfulness. I suppress an urge to step back, but to my credit, my voice is the only thing that gives away my realization.

He's stroking my arm, still leaning close. I look into his eyes, look away, mumble something, and look back into his eyes. I've always been proud that I look people in the eyes, even though — or maybe especially because — I know that it's unnatural, a learned, forced custom. His eyes are a pale blue and the crinckles around them make him look sympathetic. He's not as tall as me, though it's hard to say because he's leaning towards me, wide, but not fat as in a bulging gut and a waddling gait.

"I'm on my way home," I tell him, and add quickly, in a sudden stroke of genius: "With my friend. I'm just waiting for him to finish his telephone call."

He doesn't even blink, let alone look around at Janne who's directly behind him, squatting and leaning against the ice cream kiosk, not paying any attention to us. I'm starting to get unnerved under, or rather, above his incessant stare.

He slowly looks down at my legs and then up again, meeting my eyes.

"You don't know how sorry you make me feel," he says, shaking his head.

He repeats his head-to-toe evalutation and this time I follow along. I'm wearing my worn-out, knock-off Din sko shoes, my favorite jeans, the only pants I own that conform to the shape of my legs, and a lichen-green sweater I appropriated from Taneli last winter. But I see them in a new light, I see them as maybe he sees them. He's still stroking my arm, running his hand gently from shoulder to elbow and back again.

Our eyes meet again and I can't find the words. I'm flustered, I don't want to just blow him off (a poor choice of words, perhaps), and besides, I'm immensely flattered. I wonder: am I unconsciously leading him on?

"The night's still young," I say cheerfully and tilt my head sideways and towards him, giving him the conspiratorial 'nudge nudge, wink wink' gesture from Monty Python.

"And you're with your friend," he says, not having any of my cue. He sighs, continuing to wallow in his mock sorrow.

More words are exchanged. I find it hard to follow what he's saying. He's speaks softly, as if to himself, all the while staring at my face, stroking my arm.

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