a day in the life of the wary.

A halo of matted hair and some mascara made me feel pretty that day. Scribbled high-water hand-me-downs and a tie-dye tee with a fuschia pullover made the girls look nice. Reeeaaaal nice. So nice that I had to give those ta-tas a quick squeeze, just to make sure I could really be so fortunately endowed. I right-eye winked at the shadows of my not-so-childbearing hips and slipped on some moccasins to complete the look. Outside: rain. Toss on a gortex and smile at the skies. We laugh our way to the bus (you and I) and fumble with change. Sit down with The Stranger and begin to read. Interrupted. Old toothless man at 12 o'clock stares at the curves of my legs. Instinctively they cross. "Let me read your pants" he spits, or something to that effect. The air changes as i stutter polite euphemisms in response to his crazed lustful mutterings. A sigh of relief is expelled when he exits the bus. Normalcy returned.

We wander up the hill past the Sakura samurai's and Asian cartoon look-a-likes. Their skin is pasty, as if the only light they have ever been exposed to are the rays of their laptoptvcellphonemicrowaves. Curiosity piqued, I crane my neck for a look inside that elusive convention center. My face contorted with laughter at the absurdity of the world, I hold onto you for support as we strain our calves up Pike. From the ground, a voice calls out. Don't make eye contact. But I do. He is dressed for business--purple pinstripes on black suit jacket, hair coiffed just so, suspended in the act of a shoe-tying maneuver, face gaping in wonder. At me. "Did you know you're the most gorgeous girl in all of Seattle?" Its his earnest tone that I cannot shake. Just thank. "Don't thank me. Thank God!"

Thank God. Yes, thank God there are still a precious few left who freeze in awe at the sight of a carefree smile. The rain has stopped.

But 8 blocks later its a different kind of stare. One that outlines curves through the bulk of my baggy clothes, nodding in approval as he gives me a number on the scale of attraction. Timid smile/averted gaze lets him know that he made me uncomfortable. Gives him the power he wanted. With all the dignity a walking meat-market can muster, i step closer to you, and hope he didn't notice. Scowl in disgust as i attempt a walk without hips for the inevitable re-assessment. It works. Next victim.

Descended the stairs to an oasis of purity. First go the shoes, then shirts, pants, bras, underwear. Next its fear, the eternal guard, anxiety, alert. Drop by drop of sweat we are cleansed of the toxins of a patriarchal world and freed from the ever-present submission. 3 brief hours of respite in this spa-like heaven give the dangerous illusion of liberty. Outside, the world continues to suppress its mothers, daughters, sisters, lovers. You sleep a dream without nightmares, and I watch you in tears because I never want you to wake up to the pain again. But we have miles to go before we sleep. With a gentle nudge of the foot I coax you awake and we leave the imagined safety of what feels like our mothers to be born again into reality.

We can cope, you and I, because this is our calling. To run for those who have no escape. You return your armor and we link arms in a protective sign of love to ward off further advances. It works for a time and we can laugh with little worry. We diminish our fears with guffaws. On top of the hill. On top of the world. Yet soon we descend to the beasts. Didn't remember how bad that bus stop was.

Our bond is severed and he sees his opportunity. he is lacking in stature, grammar, manners and intelligence. his eyes reveal that he can no longer see the difference between right and wrong. Just like your dream, he approaches with 1 thought in mind and pulls at my jacket. It repels water but not harassers. No hello, no charm. he just spits out that word. That awful word. no. no No No NO NO! i see fire in your eyes as the dream approaches truth. But you would never let that happen. Not to me. And I would never let that happen. Not to you. Not to us. We make it out of the mine field without a scratch, but my pride has been stabbed. Wish i had been quicker to respond. Wish i had taught that bastard a few things about chivalry with a well-aimed punch to the scrotum. But it would have ended badly. It always does for us.

If I could do it over though, I would take my wounded self by the hand and tell him that he is scum. That I am not a "cunt" that needs to be "fucked". That I am more than he has ever been, or could ever hope to be. That I am not afraid.

But i was. And so the cycle continues.

Thank God there are still the precious few.

(And thank God I still have you)