Yet Another Incel Hell
I am on checkout in a variety store. I’m a woman. Every week or so, a customer comes through my checkout. I am chirpily polite to him, as I am required to be, and I’m also friendly because I recognise him and acknowledge him as a fellow human being.
A few months into my employment, I leave to walk home after the store has closed, well after sunset, and this customer approaches me. I recognise him and greet him — fellow human being and all.
Me: “G’day, [Customer], how are you?”
Customer: “Good. Can I buy you a drink?”
Me: “No, thank you. I need to get home.”
Customer: “Can I get your number? I would love to catch up away from your store.”
Me: “Sorry, no.”
Customer: “We get on really well. I want you to know me better.”
Me: “I don’t think my husband would agree.”
Secret: I am not married.
Customer: “You are married? You led me on, you b****! You made it pretty clear you liked me.”
Me: “I am sorry, but I am not interested.”
I fled back into the store, called a cab, and snuck out the back door to my parents’ house, where I lived.
I saw the customer once or twice at the tills, but he never approached me as a friend again.
This is not a dramatic story; it’s just something that happens all the time to women who are required to be friendly as part of their job.