Stop

By Kira Rodriguez, Creative Corner Editor

"Hey there, sexy" isn't what I was expecting to hear at 8:45 a.m. on a Tuesday. I was usually the only one at the bus stop. Every once in a while, a pair of young girls, high schoolers, would be there waiting with me. It was just me sitting on the bus stop bench.

"Do you got a light?" the man asked, parking his bike in front of me. A joint was half-burned in his mouth.

I said no.

"Yeah, you don't look like someone who smokes."

I don't, I thought. Now please go away. I have to get to work.

I just smiled. My bus was down the street. At least, I hoped it was.

"Are you Puerto Rican? Dominican?"

Was it because of my hoops that he was asking? I said no, hoping he would go away.

"Have you ever heard of 'shake a hand, make a friend?'" he asked, holding out his hand.

I didn't want to be friends. I wanted him to leave. I shook his hand, hoping he would be satisfied and leave me to wait for the bus that couldn't come any slower.

"No, not like that. That's how a man shakes a hand. Like this, like a woman."

He proceeded to show me. His grasp was light, moving his hand up and down slightly, daintily.

I told him that was the way my dad showed me, professional with respect. A squeeze, but not too tight, with a quick up-and-down movement with some power behind it. I hoped he would say, "Ah, okay. That makes sense. Have a good day," then leave. Something like that.

"Show me," he said instead. 

He still sat on his bike, barely a foot from me, his hand out for me to show him. I played along. I couldn't go anywhere. 

Satisfied, he wished me a good day and left as the bus appeared down the street. I lathered my hands with hand sanitizer and boarded the bus.