sixteen years later; victory

being fourteen was hard for me. fuck. being any age other than the age I am right fucking now was hard for me.

sixteen might have been worse than fourteen, but I remember fourteen is when things began to change for me, when being a tomboy wasn't okay anymore, when hormone driven crushes ordained my days and I still had an innocence about me that sparkled; it was so shiny.

and then he came and dulled me.

if you wonder why I am afraid of the slightest invasion of my three feet of space, surely he was the beginning of the anxiety. if you want to know why I jump when limbs come my way, he is why. if you want to know why I don't trust men, he is one of them.

The Harold Washington Library. Research. A table. My books everywhere. My gangly limbs in a tangle underneath.

He sat nearby. I noticed him. I noticed everything even then. Him though, he has a certain discomfort, a tidal wave of noxious energy that is alarming to behold...his tabletop covered with sheafs of sketch papers, endless arrays of stolen profiles, caricatures, souls.

he spoke softly, like a secret.

: can I sketch you?

I felt scared, unsure.

: it won't take long. I promise.

he pulled up a chair next to me and began to make long strokes with charcoal across gray paper.

occasionally, he reached out to touch my face and I flinched.

: stay still.

he rearranged my arms. it felt like forever but twenty minutes later he had stolen my soul and transcribed it to paper.

I looked sad.

when I arrived at the coffeeshop this morning his hunched shoulders gave me pause, his profile looked that familar still and it was him.

I couldn't sit there with him there. I know he didn't do anything wrong. he just took some slight advantage of me. he didn't hurt me. he didn't molest me. but there was something in his touch and intentions with me that felt creepy, felt like he'd taken up my skin and crawled around inside, seeped into my pores, and took immense pleasure in stealing my soul.

so when he was in the cafe, my cafe, my place, my second home, the one constant I've had in the last ten years, the place that has been the fork in that road, led me to the life I have now,

well I couldn't let that bogeyman stay.

when I asked him to leave, I figured he'd just take off and go. I figured he'd been asked to leave lots of places. he still had that creepy unease spilling out of him, but when he turned and saw my face, the anger there, the bitterness,

he asked: did I do something wrong?

and how could I remind him? I just shook my head no and told him it was time to go.

he used them all in a range of calm to furious;

: I spent money here, how dare you be rude to me, you racist, red neck fuck.

I have seen him around the city in glimpses tinged with fear always wondering if it was really him.

and I hope I never see him again. ever.