Just a visitor; not working.

While brushing my teeth 
I always think of the best come backs. 
::I think about:: 
this guy said something to me four and a half months ago 
and I say, 
"No you're a butthead." 
::I think about:: 
this guy said something to me when I was married to him 
and I say, 
"No you're the worst." 
::I think about:: 
moving back to Pennsylvania with my young daughters in 2009 
I found a job as a housekeeper at the hospital 
so that I would only have to work while they were at school 
this guy said something to me 
while I was holding a toilet brush 
and I say, 
"Don't fucking touch me" 
... and spit. 

I'm embarrassed of how my body looks entering the hospital today. 
What would he think? 
The guy that used to touch my face. 
Carrying two pizzas in with me -- 
for someone losing a husband 
and someone losing a father. 
They don't act like they are losing someone. 
We talk about the Twilight Zone and Quantum Leap. 
They thank me for the pizza and seem to also want to leave. 
I look around one more time on the way out. 
I get angry at that guy a fistful of times a year. 
Do you think he feels embarrassed when I feel angry? 

My supervisor that year told me that he would let me sleep on the decision to have this guy told about himself. 
I went back to the office the next day and my supervisor told me that it may cause this guy trouble, here at the hospital, if he gets told about himself. 
My supervisor asked me if I could try again to make the guy stop, "Really make it clear to him. Ya know.?" 
My supervisor told me this would be a very embarrassing talk for him if I hadn't first been very clear with the guy on my own. 

So I looked at the guy as he walked down the hall 
about twenty years my senior -- 
he was groomed like any other slim-built, middle-aged man walking out of a convenience store in the 80's during a cool summer sunset -- 
All I got out was, 
"don't" 
and glanced down at my hands, 
in baby blue vinyl gloves, 
as his hand came toward my face again. 
Most of his hand settled gently on my cheek. 
His thumb though, 
nestled tilted, but evenly disbursed against the flat of both my lips. 
Stopping other words, even if I'd had the courage.
The moisture from his thumb bonded the gesture forever with me. 
My lips still know the path,
walking the groves of that thumbprint to all the red dots across this town reminding me of moments like these, and the places that I still run into them.