By Stephanie Mesler
I smell him before the doors open.
He slinks on board,
reeking.
Not the light smell of a delicate French soup or wild onions along grandmother’s fence.
He must have bathed in a vat of roasting bulbs, rinsed his hair in the juice as it sweat into the pan.
His vegetable smell is mixed with testosterone and the hairs on my arms stand to attention.
I know before he reaches for my waist that he has plans for my body, plans to which I have not consented and never will.
I spin around and face him down, right there in that tiny room, gliding from ground floor to roof.
He is not zipped and I watch as he grows.
He smiles
NO, I shout, reaching behind me for the button, any button.
I want to get off this thing, out of this space, out of his reach.
He swings wildly, grazes my cheek with a sting.
BITCH, he roars.
YES! I roar back. YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA.
He lunges and I stumble backwards, somehow, miraculously, hitting the alarm with a shoulder as he forces me down into the corner.
The elevator climbs as he descends.
I lift one knee with all the force I can muster - it smashes into his prized possession.
Pushing against his chest with both palms, I choke on his pungency as I scream.
NO, I say again, and then I stand.
He is curled in the opposite corner, muttering, Bitch, Cunt, Slut, Bitch, Cunt, Slut, Bitch…
I step toward him and kick. Hard.
Blood splurts from his nose and he has no more words.
He howls and the elevator rumbles.
The door opens behind me and I step backwards into a crowd.
© Stephanie Mesler 2018
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