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- Nothing.
I am exceptionally bad at recognizing people. By face or name. The amount of times I have stood behind the bar muttering: ‘I know them from wherever… Where? Where do I know you from?’
It haunts me – how rude and dumb I appear to old and new acquaintances alike – staring and muttering at them, often to no end.
- Recognition.
Strangely – or aptly, I was already thinking of him.
After months of nothing, he cornered one of the other girls on the metro – coaxing and grilling: how are you? how have you been? why didn’t you come to me about it? my life is ruined now – i can’t get a job. I wish you’d talked to me!
It was the worse place for him to come upon her – no escape except the next stop.
It wasn’t hers but she took it, walking the difference home by a stream of messages from him – ranging from amicable ‘don’t be stranger’ to vaguely threatening: a screenshot of messages from an earlier, friendlier time with the caption: ‘how would you feel if these were twisted?’
All this, I was told the previous evening, with a warning to block any channel of communication.
I did, I had.
But walking I wondered, as often I do, how would I react if he came upon me – what would I do?
- Disgust.
It was that he was smiling. Smiling and waving. As you might to an old friend, as if to say: ‘oh! Hello! Fancy seeing you again!’
The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds. Two seconds not realising – one recognising and then: reaction.
Simultaneously, on instinct and with a violent desire to impress upon him the actuality of feelings widely held but hidden both by those adhering to polite British convention and cowards not willing to tell a predator to fuck off: I furrowed my brows as deep into my eyes as they might go – I raised my upper lip to the nave – to the base of my nose and frowned.
Later, I would tell people it was a grimace but from trying the expression again and again – to remember exactly what I did, I know there was no flaring of the nostrils.
It was more like a puppy learning to snarl.
I wanted him to see that I despised him – that I knew the extent of his crimes – to myself and others – that I knew he was unrepentant, that he thought he’d done no wrong.
I had only a split second to prove to him that in spite of all he thought I do have a mind and feelings, that I am loyal and unafraid. That though I am weak and insecure, I have in myself bravery and assurance. I will not be confused or manipulated.
I scowled, I gave my meanest gaze, perhaps it was only a guise but I did not look away.
- Recognition of Disgust.
In the last second, his expression changed.
The cliché: ‘it happened in slow motion’ applies only in memory.
In the instance – the change was like a climbers rope snapping – the sudden drop, the sudden shift in the face that the fall pulls away – from bragging friendliness to offended hurt. As if he could not understand why I would meet his waving with vitriol.
I passed the restaurant and continued on.
- Terror
is perhaps the wrong word…
Indeed, I began to tremble – anxiety, horror, confusion, relief – ears burnings, hands like a hangover.
I feared he might run after me: checking over my shoulder, my hands still firmly in my coat pockets.
In the supermarket, every aisle suggested: if he were there, why not here? He was somewhere on your high street, why not everywhere?
I tried out the scowl again and again, to the ambivalence of shoppers not looking at me, not wondering why I was furious at the cleaning supplies.
Was it enough? Was it too much?
What did I achieve?
- Work.
For all this, the weird newcomming upon me – I was still at work. It had been a work errand I ran, and to work I had to return.
On my way back, I walked on the other side of the street, refusing to look in the direction of his restaurant but trying to appear casual. My habit of looking into the windows I pass, which had gotten me into this situation, was suspended.
I was now the sort of person to look ahead as I walked. The world could rightly end and I would not notice. Not because I was afraid but because it simply did not bother me.
Weirdly, I hoped he saw him, I hoped he knew that though he disgusted me, that I was more than capable of expressing my disdain – he occupied no space in my soul.
Not worth the turning of my head.
Back at work, it came out.
They know the bones of the matter and are decent enough to not force me to explain the flesh.
They are kind and understanding but we are busy and must continue. For this, I am grateful.
It is hard to be afraid when serving wine: funny and beautifully trivial as it is. I do not have time to fear him, or whether he might arrive – I am asked about the grapes of English fizz and invent an answer.
When I see my co-worker two days later she assures me that if he were ever to enter, even under the cover of a group – he would be refused absolutely.
I am reminded that I am not alone. That there are good and kind people who care for me, who understand and will stand with me.
It does not always rain.
- Peace.
After I finished, I decided to visit my other work – where he hailed from, where the exact circumstances do not need to explained. They are known and for some, lived.
I am welcomed warmly – I am given a seat and a lovely glass of wine and I talked with them when service allowed.
‘Are you okay?’ They ask, gently filling my glass.
I have had time to consider and can answer true.
Yes. Truly I am. The shock has subsided, my hands, no longer shaking are out my pockets, are calm on the bar top.
Aside from those uncanny seconds and the fear that followed them, I had a really lovely day.
I began an internship at a magazine, I am working on an article I am very excited about, I passed my WSET with a distinction and for weeks now, in spite of some creeping sadness, I have not fallen into a misery as so often I do.
And to end – I enjoyed a lovely glass of wine among friends to whom I could confide.
Can he say that?
- Doubt.
And yet…
I knew I’d see him again someday. That however I acted, it would never satisfy.
Losing his job wasn’t enough to solidify in his mind that what he did to me, what he did to them, was abhorrent, was nothing any well-adjust, considerate, respectable thirty-six year old manager would ever do to the young women in his charge.
I understand, from messages he sent to our chef and his position in the restaurant as I passed (not with anyone or with a drink or food, but standing, in a collar shirt) that he is likely the new manager of the restaurant.
For all his trying laments, he has a job. Again, he is, more likely than not – knowing hospitality as I do – in charge of a group of young women. As impressionable, potentially younger than I.
So then, what is my duty?
Do we strike him down, as we did before? Do we tell what we know, knowing it damns him – hoping it damns him?
Has he changed, is he capable of change? He, who has cornered a girl on the metro? Who has smiled and waved at me, as if nothing passed between us? As if he did not humiliate and manipulate when I was most vulnerable?
Where does it end?
Could I forgive myself if he struck again? Could I validate taking from him another job, when I am seemingly now safe?
Is safety for myself the end? Or for all? Or is it overstepping?
Where does it end? How can I know?
- Nothing.
It is some days after that I write this.
His face, which, after not seeing for so long, appears to me so clearly I feel my face return to the scowl I am both proud of and feel lacking.
As I passed I remember thinking I should show him my middle finger. A little juvenile I admit, but it occured to me and after I wondered why I hadn’t.
First: I hadn’t time. You must understand how brief the window. Indeed, I am amazed that I even thought to scowl. If he hadn’t been on my mind already, if exactly how I would have wanted to react hadn’t been at forefront of my thoughts – I don’t think I would have managed it.
Second: I thought it beneath me. Or else I knew I couldn’t pull it off.
I am not a very cool person. I do not give off cool girl vibes. If I had pulled out the finger, I reckon I might have looked more like a try hard middle schooler than a women with real, serious feelings.
Third, finally and perhaps most pertinently, my hands were in my pocket. Frozen there. I don’t think I could have lifted them for the world.
And though I scowled, it was an impression of a scowl. More the hope that I could express my anger to him that true expression of it.
My hands were frozen.
Again, I could not move.