On the train, a stranger touches my thigh—low
enough that it’s not technically inappropriate,
high enough that my skin crawls.
He tells me that I’m easy to talk to,
that he loves me, that he has a ring for my bare left hand,
while I list names in my head of who I trust
to pretend to be my boyfriend if I call.
I’m on my way back from a clinic
where I explained to a girl younger than me
what a pap smear was, where we would touch her,
showed her the brush and speculum,
gave her everything to expect.
“If you feel uncomfortable at any point, tell us.
We’ll do all we can to help.”
He tells me, again, that I should spend the night
while I wonder how fast I could run through the cold
in my trying-to-look-official skirt and flats.
I told the girl on the exam table
that she was doing great,
that we were almost done,
that the worst was over.
When I finally get off, he follows,
yells through the cold about
what he would do to my body,
how he wants to open me up.
My heartbeat doesn’t slow unJl I deadbolt
the front door.
The girl in the gynecology clinic
asked me if it would hurt. “No,” I said,
“It’s uncomfortable, but there shouldn’t be pain.”
I still don’t know if she was asking me
as the one with badge and stethoscope
or as a woman.
