I noticed Jamie’s flirtation. And he flirted a lot. From casually bumping my hand when we dined together to blatantly seducing me disguised as showing me how to julienne vegetables to his liking. I knew how to cut a bell pepper. I’d been doing it since grade school. Jamie scooped himself behind me, placing his hand on mine and the other on the knife, guiding me to make neat, small cuts. He talked close to my ear with a low, whispering purr that made my pulse run faster than a rabbit on a greyhound track. I liked my employment and the safe haven they provided, and I pretended I was oblivious to his advances. And the more I played dumb, the more frustrated Jamie seemed become. I hoped he’d eventually give up and chase another skirt. He proved me wrong. Jamie wasn’t only invading my personal space in real life, he also haunted my dreams. For a while, I dismissed this problem in a Freudian way, thinking that I was sexually repressed and these carnal desires were in my subconscious and when someone expressed interest in me, it acted as a catalyst that manifested it into dreams.
