![]() My shaking hands were no longer wholly a symptom of the sharp sudden panic that had gripped me from that first shouted word, but were now from a new feeling entirely: anger. It was only after I pulled out of the parking lot onto a familiar street that I began to feel anything other than all-consuming fear. Instead, I said nothing and lengthened my strides until I was practically jogging by the time I reached the safety of my car. I wish I had said something, anything, in response. I wish I had stopped walking and asked them why they thought I cared that they liked “girls with short hair.” I wish I told them just how pathetic they were to follow me. So, the group of men clustered by the entrance to the mall parking lot felt a little too coincidental. While sitting in the musty, dimly lit break room, as the store’s muffled playlist droned in the background, I shrugged off the interaction and decided to just get through the next hour of work. ![]() Eventually when I ran out of plausible non-answers and it became clear that I wasn’t going to tell them my schedule, my manager had to intervene. ![]() Earlier that day I had been cornered and solicitously asked what time my shift ended. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |