Last Friday night, I went to watch a movie at my local AMC theater in Manhattan. It was a chick flick that started at 8 p.m. I went by myself. I am comfortable with going places alone because in my almost three years living in Manhattan I haven’t run into trouble and I most certainly had never noticed, quite so fully, my womanhood.
I sat down. Next to me a man, maybe in his thirties or forties, was reclining. He wore no shoes or socks. He had layered two graphic tee shirts. Balding. I thought he was waiting for his girlfriend, so I pulled my mouth into a false smile, took my coat off and sat down. Within a few seconds, the man looked at me and asked me my name in French. I don’t speak French, but I don’t think he did either. It appeared that it was the only thing he knew in the language.