I’m minding my business, wearing a pink Betty Boop tank top, Levis jean mini-skirt and Target flip-flops, waiting for my take-out lunch at Viva Fresh, anxious for my first Mexican food and Bud Light Lime in several weeks due to my travels to Italy, France and Monaco. A short white man, 60ish I suppose, approaches me and says, “You’re so tall and I’m so short. How tall are you, 6-foot-2?”
I stare down on his pink scalp and make the mistake of asking him how tall he is as I try to pass the time while waiting for my food and the U.S. World Cup team to score against Ghana.
“5-foot-4,” he says, obviously pleased that I didn’t tell him to go f&^* himself. “I used to be 5-foot-7 but you shrink as you get older.”
“So I guess I’ll end up 5-foot-10 at some point,” I say with a laugh.
Then he tells me that he dates a sister and that she’s out of town. I remind him of her, he says.
“Oh, is she 6-foot-1?” I ask.
“No, but she’s a sista,” he says.
As if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Now it was time to ignore him and turn away, as I should have done in the first place.
I’m sure the Black girlfriend does not exist. It was the little man’s way of letting me know he’s available and open to Black women should I decide to step down to his level. Or am I just jumping to conclusions?