I stand at the doors hoping no one will be there when they open.
The gears clacking are a signal to prepare.
Keys between the fingers, phone in pocket so I’m not distracted.
The doors open and there he stands, a harmless looking man, until I see where his eyes are glaring.
As if the clothes on my body, the fabric shield that I carefully picked out to cover what prying eyes would feast upon, made no difference at all.
Time stands still as choices tick around my mind.
Do I get in and risk being sealed in a 6×7 box with someone who clearly believes his suit and tie entitles his eyes to use my body as their personal resting place?
Should I pretend I forgot something and walk away?
Should I tell him to fuck off and hope that the doors close before his male rage takes hold?
The delicate balance between my own safety and the violence of a shattered male ego keeps my feet grounded, inches away from the doors that could decide my fate.
He continues to stare as he steps forward and starts to speak.
Before I could hear whatever variation of “sweetheart” or “honey” he was going to say, the doors slide shut and I was left standing on the outside.
I guess I’ll take the stairs, at least in a stairwell there are multiple exits.
Inherent Fear 