She is bored by this intrusion.
“Have a good evening,” she says, as she turns back to her phone. They also turn to leave when the man takes a step back toward her.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” he says as his lips pull up and back to show his teeth, “I just wanted to tell you how nice your head wrap is and how beautiful you look. I know women like compliments, it comforts them in their beauty.”
“No.” The interjection sharp, abrupt, is followed by silence.
He draws back, surprised. “No?” He falters.
“No. I hear your words. But no, I do not need or want them.” She can feel her treacherous condition of a woman educated to be “nice” trying to force a smile to her lips. She ignores it, her gaze impassive to the annoyance of the lanky blond stranger before her.
“Bonne soirée,” she repeats, this time with a small smile.
“Bonne soirée,” he mumbles as he turns and drifts back to his companion, a black woman surely in awe of his unquestionable power, conscious of her luck to have had bestowed upon her such an outstanding specimen of male magnificence.
She takes a deep breath and lets it expand within herself. She is learning to revolt against weak men who are bred to be little more than sexist bullies who continually seek to crush her power by forcing their “validation” down her throat.
You will not force your fingers into my vagina, push your sex into my mouth, ram your debasing thoughts covered thick in viscous compliments into my mind.
I rebuke your attempts to posses my flesh with your probing eyes, your groping hands, your hungry words.
Take this as a final warning. If you come at me again I will dismantle you.