Lucy

While waiting in line at the post office, a grey-haired gentleman behind me informed me that I “looked like the girls in Gauguin’s paintings.” I did not know whether to feel flattered or lie in abject horror. I laughed it off, and attempted to deflect future comments with a “yeah, it’s probably because I’m so tan.” But he pressed on: asking me where I came from (China, not the South Pacific) and insisting that, I must at least be from Southern China (I don’t know).

“It’s like with the Africans,” he continued, his voice remarkably lowered. “You can tell the difference between the ones from Egypt and the ones from the Congo in their faces. Their bone structures are different.” And suddenly I felt further denuded before him, back turned, and reduced to a sheepish grin.

“Consider it a compliment,” he insisted.