Int'l Women's Day-Three Emotions on Being a Woman in Public Spaces

hate.
He is barking as I walk toward him. A man a few years older than me walking with his two young kids, and before him running for the train is a woman. She is running for the train like anyone would run for the train, the slide and shuffle of an adult dressed for work along the public tiles in the tunnels of downtown HarborCity. My body shakes before I speak, and he just stares at me, blank, and my body keeps shaking. The next morning, I am rushing down the stairs, we are like electrons in a wire, moving along, jostling. He is walking up the stairs and collides with a woman in front of me, as he slides his way along the railing toward me he says, "Fat fucking cunt". I look him in the eye and ask him loudly what he just said, he brushes past me, knocking my elbow.

love.
He is asleep. His finger between the pages of a book that has closed. There are fine wrinkles behind his eyes and the eyes move quickly behind thin eyelids, dreaming. He opens the door for me and takes me to lunch, it is a the shelter where he eats everyday and he signs me in as his guest, his knuckles are gnarled and his whole hand shakes as he lifts food to his mouth. He is telling me a story about how his old lady left him for Jesus, and how can an honest guy compete with that? It is raining and cold, I'm crossing the quad in not enough clothing, my shirt getting wet, he sees me and crosses grass to reach me and hands me his umbrella, walking away before I can argue, his shirt tented over the broad span of his shoulder blades. I keep the umbrella in my room for a whole day before taking it back to him, looking at the sleek dark folds of kindness.

fear.
I am coming out of the train and feel his body against me. I had paused, turned, and he, his dark gravely voice in my ear and his hands on my shoulders turned me around. I fill with panic, the moment is short, his deep voice only says "sorry" and his hands release my shoulders just as quickly. He didn't even spill my coffee that cools too quickly in the frigid winter air. Running, in the morning in the dark around the pond, I notice the signs that say that there have been coyote sightings and to call animal control if you see one. I don't, but rounding the corner where there are no lights, I see his form moving, walking slowly, hips low, legs swinging, a huge dark jacket, and a hood pulled low over his face. I square my shoulders and run a little faster, pulling knees higher, stretching legs longer, muscles pulling on bones to reach a few more inches. I reach my hand into the pocket of my windbreaker and lace my keys between my fingers. I know how to throw a punch, and the keys would dig sharp into his cheek and the soft tissue of an eye. This is how I would collect DNA evidence. He ambles past me, and I feel foolish.