silver | d.m.

30.solicitude

March 2005 | H E R

Tiana sips on her coffee, noting how much it cooled down since she's been standing outside dimwit's door, waiting for the arrival of your royal highness.

Four and a half sips later, he finally decides to come out, locking the door with  a croissant held between his teeth.

"Thank you very much." He speaks with food still in his mouth, taking the coffee cup to go from her hand, the one she's not sipping on. The one containing bitter dark liquid for his sad sad soul.

And when he rips a chunk of croissant off, it gives her perfect opportunity to piss him off. Just because.

"You chew like a cow."

"Fuck off," she grins at his glower, the two of them stepping into the elevator. "Imagine I would say that to you."

Her shoulders lift in a shrug. "I would kick you in the nuts."

"Unfair."

Her smile turns self-satisfied. "Called female privilege."

"Where is mine?" He demands. Like a child would. "I want to have privilege, too."

She blinks at him, because there is no way. "You're joking, right?"

"No." He really isn't.

"You are privilege personified."

"Because I'm filthy rich?"

"That," as they walk out their building, Tiana waves Simon goodbye. "And you are a white, straight male, who just so happens to be handsome as well, but that is just a sweet bonus—not at all required to earn more money, even though my job is more important and I'm in a higher position."

"That is a lie. My job is more important," he states, putting up facts. "Your department comes after mine."

"More important in my eyes." Far more important. "And still, I'm in a higher position and earned—not bad, but still—less than you and the same as my male collegues, who are working under me."

"Earned?" he points out the past tense.

"I demanded a higher salary as soon as I got wind of it." She raises the coffee cup to her lips.

He speaks with a full mouth, that's how baffled he is. "You can do that?"

"Apparently. But it's not about the money itself, but the fact that we, as women, have to fight for the things that are handed to you on a silver platter."

He nods in understanding. "What else is handed to me?"

A fuzzy part of her brain is satiated by his willingness to learn and listen to her talking. That's what she noticed, he cares about every word she says, even when it won't necessarily speak for him.

"On this sidewalk," she points down at the paved stones. "Guess who has to step aside? Me or the oncoming man? Or better, let me put it like this—have you ever stepped aside when you saw a woman coming your way?"

He thinks about it. "Don't really think about it."

"Exactly. Just by social norms, men are allowed more space. That also goes for clothing—your pockets are big and you can actually put stuff in it. My pockets—mostly decorative and why? Because clothes are focused on slimming us woman. And for whom is that?"

His nose scrunches in total disagreement of the fact. "Men, I guess."

"Who else if not them." Sarcasm stains her tongue. Another thought comes. She could rattle and tattle all day once she gets started on it. "Or when people always assume you know what you're talking about. You're not told to swear less and apologize more. When I'm being brutally honest, I'm a cunt, when you're being honest, you're praised for it. You're a boss."