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Show time and still naked, holding a red rag over his mouth that concealed most of his face. His eyes were dark, his body bare, and he got off when he saw my fear. He had been waiting for me all winter. This time I ran directly to the police station. Barely able to catch my breath, I described the naked man in detail to the officer on duty. The evening shift is about to change, he said. You have caught us at a bad time. If I waited for an hour or so, though, the incoming officer could drive me back to the place and see if he was still there. When I told him I thought I would instead go home, he assured me in parting that men like that are rarely violent. Walking home in the morning traffic, my sweat grew cold against my skin. I would see him a third time before I changed running routes, holding onto my routine until bodily harm seemed certain. I see it now as a struggle for control of the road, my route, and my body. More dearly, I have come to realize, it was a struggle for a world in which men do not spring from bushes, carry guns, or leave. Each time he appeared, he moved closer to me. The last he literally emerged from the hedge, a hand away. When I shouted both he and I were surprised by the strength of my voice. What he took from me was more than my route. Faced with a naked man, young, maybe six feet tall, I was forced to admit the fragility of body and the impossibility of flight. Being out and alone in the dark of morning had always made me feel connected. Now I felt scared. My heart raced not from exertion but fright. Every corner, every bush, every shadow made me jump. Sometimes I even cried out. Running down the sidewalk, I dodged and leapt from an errant branch or a cat, shell-shocked. 230 |