“Is anyone getting changed?” he asks.
I’m in the locker room and a girl in a blue bra looks over at me. “Yes.” I say.
“Is anyone changing?”
“YES,” I say.
“Are you changing?”
“YES,” says the girl.
He’s now next to me. I’m jutting my head, thrusting my hands, stretching my eye sockets. “WHAT are you doing?”
“I asked if anyone was changing.”
“This is the women’s locker room.”
“I work here.”
“And I said yes.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“She said yes.”
“I didn’t hear her. What is ‘yes’ supposed to mean, anyway? Yes you’re changing, or yes I can come in?”
“You should never come in.”
“I’m here for your security.”
“And I feel so much safer.”
This is our first encounter and yet afterward, I press the elevator button and he’s on it. I buy groceries and he’s ahead paying for cigarettes. I go for coffee and he’s at table 12, sipping on a coke. I've determined that he's less of a threat and more of an idiot but I’m still spending my life looking the other way, shift directions while he holds up his phone and talks loudly so I can hear him.
You went to Ibiza? You got a raise? You have a new girlfriend? Poor girl.
It’s intolerable. I should have won this argument but I left before the apology. I want a redo. I want submission, I want to take the phone and tell the person on the other line what a jerk he is. While I consider moving to a new neighbourhood it suddenly occurs to me I know where he works, I know his favourite song, I know how long he can drink coke before using the bathroom. He only saw my shorts. Take that for privacy. Ha. I win.