I never learned how to flirt. Or at least, I don’t think I’ve ever actively tried flirting–it seems difficult. I don’t recognize when I’m being flirted with, either, unless it’s so blatant that it crosses the line from flirtatious to harassment, which drives me far past interested and deep into angry.
It’s a quirk I have to accept about myself. When I think back to all the weird things people have said to me over the years, I now realize that many of them were (bad) attempts at flirting. That guy who practically sat in my lap at a concert and told me we should sleep together? He probably didn’t mean it literally. The girl who winked and gave me her number in case I needed homework help? Probably flirting. That guy who named off bean flavors at the bubble tea place in a silly voice and kept smiling at me? I’m still not convinced on that one, but a friend told me it was flirting and I trust her expertise.
Even though I can’t flirt, or maybe because I can’t flirt, I find it fascinating how changing your tone, the way you move, the words you say, sends an entirely different message, like a language I just can’t speak.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) From French minauder, for “coquettish woman”
One of the first lessons they learn from their mother is that to be a widow is to always have others’ sympathies. They need never know that you ended his life yourself.
The next lesson they learn is that you apply perfume to your wrists and throat so that men may only smell it when they kiss you.
It’s later that they learn of hunger, aching deep in the pits of their stomachs. Their mother teaches them of bad men, men like their father, and how a bite to the throat is so like a kiss, so tender, so filling.