Fast typing - "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.