He got off the night bus at a deserted stop and headed home. He wasn’t completely alone there. A young woman also got off at the same stop. Very awkwardly—she was walking a few meters in front of him. She was scared.
Maybe other men know this too. He felt her terror, heard her quickened steps. He saw that her movements were jumpy.
What did he feel? Anger and helplessness. It’s not my fault that I’m taking the same route. Why do I suddenly have to be a pervert just because I live here? I also just want to go home. Would it help if I walked in front of you? In the end, he turned into a different street. It was a longer route, but at least no one would bother him with their fear along the way.
I know similar helplessness. I feel it when someone, in panicked fear for their career, caricatures me into a monster. Into a creature that, according to research numbers, supposedly wants to show off, express itself, create big things, live an unrestrained lifestyle, that looks for iPhones among ice cream bars and Red Bull among banks.
