Parma Ham

I’ll teach you how to slice meats, he said.

He showed me how to secure the ham and how to regulate the thickness of the slices.  Then he stood behind me, his body closely pressed to mine.  I could smell his aftershave, something with almonds in it, along with something bitter. 

He put his right hand on mine, on the handle that secured the ham.  His left hand switched on the machine and then supported my left hand.  We moved as one body. His breath tickled my ear. 

Six times.  Six slices.

For lunch, he said.

He was my boss.  I had a summer job as a deli assistant in a shop on the boulevard.  The last girl had left without warning.  He was happy that I could start so soon. 

It was the relative calm before the lunch would break out.  I stood between the hams and the sausages, the cheeses of which I yet had to learn the names and the tins and packets with exotic ingredients.

He came to stand beside me. Without touching me, the tip of his tongue slid softly around the rim of my ear.  Still.  I stood still like a bird that doesn’t know whether to flee or whether to be invisible.  Invisible won out.  Perhaps it was a mistake.

But it wasn’t.

Have you ever been with a boy? he asked.

His lips took my earlobe in his mouth, sucked it, nibbled it. I stood still.  The little bird still didn’t know whether to flee or be invisible.  I knew something very wrong was happening.  My body was less sure.

The door opened to a customer.  He pulled away, became all professional.

The little bird decided.  Decided to flee.