Maybe
- Liz
- Aug 11
- 2 min read
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Maybe he’ll corner me in the elevator; rip my tights, leave me torn. Maybe he’ll tell me to keep quiet. Maybe he’ll tell me to get loud. Maybe I smile too much; my lipstick is a neon sign. Maybe he’ll use fingers. He wears a gun and handcuffs; maybe he’ll use those.
Maybe he’ll just kiss me.
“Do the elevators have cameras?” I ask my boss.
He is perplexed: “They don’t.”
Maybe I should take the stairs.
When the new security guard starts patrolling campus, I notice him noticing me and my thoughts are dark. I have a “go bag” stashed in my house; I have emergency canned goods stacked in a kitchen cabinet. I have water, running shoes, a sleeping bag, and an atlas in the trunk of my car. I have a stun gun for solo road trips, a hunting knife for solo hikes. I’m 34 and I have a notarized Missouri Medical POA. I like to be prepared. I like to feel safe. I don’t know how to feel safe with men.
Maybe I never did.
The security guard tells me he’s a father, a husband. He likes black coffee; he’s building a house.
“Did you get to hang out with your boys?” I ask him when summer ends.
He’s not new anymore, and we are friendly. Still, I notice him noticing me and I am prepared.
I have two morning after pills hidden in my bathroom. I bought them right before the fall of Roe. I’ve taken Plan B twice. I cramped; I cried in the shower. I survived. I’ll do it all a third time if I must.
I have a friend who works as an evidence collection nurse — scooping DNA, gathering information. Maybe I’ll text her after, ask her to drive me to the hospital.
Maybe I won’t tell anyone for a long time. Maybe I won’t tell anyone ever.
Maybe I’ll just take a pill, take a shower, and survive.
