More Than a Glance
The first time it happened, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t some grand, cinematic moment with a soundtrack and dramatic lighting. It was a Tuesday, and the air in the small, dimly lit bar was thick with the smell of stale beer and something vaguely like rain. I was perched on a stool that was a little too small for me, my thick thighs pressed together, the curve of my booty spilling over the edge just enough to make me feel conspicuous. I was used to that feeling—the subtle, or not-so-subtle, awareness of the space my body took up. For years, it had been a source of anxiety, a reason to hunch my shoulders and choose clothes that promised to make me invisible. But not tonight. Tonight, I was wearing a pair of jeans that I’d bought on a whim, jeans that hugged every single one of my curves like a long-lost lover. They were tight, dark, and unapologetic, and paired with a simple, stretchy top that clung to my soft stomach. I felt a tremor of that old fear as I’d left the house, but I’d...
