---
Now I remember why I don’t like taking the early bus.
He’s there, again. Middle-aged, medium height, salt-and-pepper goatee – and a gaze to fix upon me.
Tapping my bus pass to pay, I can feel his eyes following my every move – the slight head tilt, the wide, intense, unblinking stare.
What do I do? What can I do? Did he see the apartment building I came out of? Will he find out where I live? Does he live there, too?
I stare blindly ahead and pretend not to notice. Go around the back of the bus shelter, to the other side, where his eyes can’t follow.
Maybe I should walk to the other bus stop after all. It’s only 10 minutes away.
It’s amazing what a difference 10 minutes can make. For some, it's the choice between the early bus and the late bus. This morning, it’s the difference between losing myself in a book and standing here, body frozen but mind racing – filled with escape routes and possibilities, questions and doubts.
What if he saw my ID badge? What if he caught a glimpse of my name? Can he figure out where I work? What if he works there, too?
Mornings like these make me wonder what to do differently. Get up earlier? Get up later? Go to the bus stop up the road?
Maybe I should stare back until he looks away. My heart races as soon as I consider the thought. No, don’t do that.
Mornings like these, I always try to get on near the back, hoping I can put myself behind him. I think, somehow, that if I could just keep track of him, I’ll know when I’m safe. Then I can be in control. Then, his eyes won’t own me.
But he always sits at the very back, so I’ve given up on this strategy. Instead, I sit as far away as I possibly can. Still, I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my skull. I’ve turned around before, casually. His eyes are always there, waiting.
Why me?
But it isn’t just me, not really. It’s all of us. Daily, weekly, monthly. On the bus, on the street, on the walk home.
Maybe I’m paranoid. I probably am. But I’m pretty sure it’s saved my life.
I can’t even begin to recount the times it’s happened; the elaborate schemes to protect myself and the wondering, always wondering, if I’ll be okay this time.
---
On the bus home at night from class, I fake a conversation on my phone. I laugh, eyes lighting up, pausing to listen, promising my nonexistent boyfriend that I’ll be home soon, and has he made dinner yet?
---
Another day, I’m filled with an inexplicable sense of dread about one person.
Wasn’t he behind me on that other bus, earlier?
I pretend to get my belongings ready, pulling out my keys and making all the necessary preparations, pull the cord to stop the bus, intentionally almost too late, watching from the corner of my eye to see if he makes any of his own motions to disembark. He doesn't.
I get off, keys jutting out between my knuckles as an improvised weapon. Suddenly, he makes a leap for the door and gets off, too, but I get back on the bus through the back door. He’s left behind.
Did he really want to get off at that stop? Was he following me?
I’ll never know.
---
I’m out in broad daylight, and a car is tailing me. I know this because I’ve been around the block twice now, and its occupants have been hooting, hollering, and making obscene gestures out the window the whole time.
They keep following, slowly and inexorably. I want to scream, I want to shout, I want to yell FUCK OFF. I want to escape. Instead, I duck into a grocery store and mingle.
My final exam is tomorrow – I should be studying for it, but I wander the aisles for an hour, trying to slow my thundering heart and my ragged breathing. Trying to stay calm.
Should I call the police? I don’t even remember what the car looks like. I should have gotten the license plate number. Why didn’t I take a picture?
I call my mom. She tells me about the time a car followed her at night, when she was biking home. She had to escape through an alleyway and didn’t feel safe going home for hours. I don’t feel better.
When I go out into the parking lot, my pulse picks up again. My throat tightens.
Is that the car? Is that their car in the parking lot?
A car door slams behind me, and I flinch.
---
On his day off a few weeks ago, I brought my husband down to the bus stop with me to see me off before work. He gives me a meaningful look – Is he here?
I shake my head slightly. No.
But then, there he is – salt and pepper goatee, standing by the pay station.
I stick close to my husband’s side. I hold his hand. He puts his arm around me. I hope it will make a difference. I hope, somehow, that by showing that I have someone, it will change things. It will show I’m off limits. It will show I’m protected. It’s absolutely, completely, disgustingly idiotic – but it’s all I’ve got.
And on this morning, the gaze is markedly absent.
I kiss my husband goodbye, and board the bus. I’m hopeful. I read. I lose myself in my book. I go on vacation, come back, and blissfully forget all about the man at the bus stop.
---
This morning, I crossed the street.
This morning, his eyes were there. Waiting for me.
And I wonder –
Why?
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