1 minute read
the encounter
Written by Laura Habib
As I wait for my tram a woman sits next to me. She cries, moans, curses. Eyes down, hands knotted, I ignore her rather than subject her to a stranger’s prying. But then she screams at two girls holding a lively conversation in their native language.
I hate confrontation, but before I can think I react:
My voice is weak mild, soft, pathetic but still oil to fire. She springs up, trembling like a cornered, wounded animal.
My heart beats frantic and fluttering because she’s tall, eyes wide, hands furious and her skinny arms are corded with scrawny muscle. I consider walking away (I’ve never been in a fight) before I glance back at the girls (and their resigned expressions) and think—this is worth fighting for. (But God, I’m scared.)
The woman comes close, black tear tracks of drying mascara on her cheeks. Closer, too close— she could pull out a knife and I would be helpless.
“Staunch” is so unexpected a word I can’t help but squint in confusion.
Perhaps she mistakes bemusement for contempt and—
—wipes my fears clean, I can’t help it… Bisexual and unbothered and more baffled than injured, I laugh. This infuriates her, and she wails, stalks away, and I remember we are on a crowded platform. One person asks if I’m okay, but no one asks the two girls and that woman, so clearly ill, is still alone. “Speak fucking English!”
“What are you going to fucking do about it?”
“Fucking tough cunt! Look at this staunch bitch!”
