Member-only story
Rough Drafts
A Series of Pieces Written in The Wild
#22
The man in the elevator was friendly enough. Just making small talk with a stranger, as we do. He asked if I liked living here and I replied, “Yeah, I’ve been enjoying it.” He said, “It’s nice it’s safe here.” The elevator dinged and he walked through the doors. I’m not sure if it was a commentary on the fact that it was dark outside and I had been walking behind him, alone, into our building. I also started to wonder if the star around my neck had popped out from beneath my sweater and he caught a glimpse. Safety, when I think of it now, means what it historically has meant: temporary, elusive, a glass house, a battle in the distance but also everywhere.
Goodbyes to friends are heavier now. “Stay safe” is a plea. As if it’s anyone’s responsibility to not get attacked. How is the aggressor still not held responsible for this? I stop and wonder about the man’s last sentence to me. Was there something sinister that I missed in the moment? Or is it just my hyper vigilance doing its job. It’s hard to say, but becoming less hard to tell who is friend and who is foe. For all the information available on how to communicate better, so many seem to want to appear as if they have those skills rather than spend the time developing them. For me, I feel like I’m trying to tip-toe into bravery. Pulled between the need to be seen and the fear of the consequences.
