-OR-

Why Does This Shit Always Happen to Me?

Let me set the scene… again.

Late night train car. Just after midnight and a half. Two young women get on at the first stop and actually get a seat. Which is fantastic, because one of the women chose stupid shoes and, as a result, is suffering severe back and foot hurts.

The train pulls into the second station. More people get on, but the seats fill quickly and many are forced to stand. One new passenger places a pink duffel bag directly in front of Foot Hurt girl and stands facing her, which is always an imposition, but not totally unusual.

The girl with the hurting feets notices the new passenger’s nice red and white plaid shirt and glances up to take a look, realizing that the person she thought was a guy, despite the pink duffel, might actually be female. This was later confirmed by an untraumatized third party.

Having noted the shirt, Foot Hurt lowers her gaze, because she doesn’t make a habit of conversing with those towering over her on the train.

A few seconds later, Plaid Shirt does something unexpected.

She grabs her crotch.

Foot Hurt sees it, because it’s right at eye-level, but ignores it. Then, Plaid Shirt grabs her crotch again. And then again. Then, apparently feeling the crotch-grabbing is not having enough of an impact, Plaid Shirt begins to incorporate more of herself, rubbing up and down from chest to crotch… over and over and over. And Foot Hurt realizes just averting her gaze isn’t getting the job done and puts her hand up in a way that looks like she is merely tired and resting, but actually shields her eyes so that her nausea doesn’t continue to grow and she doesn’t end up puking on Plaid Shirt, because she isn’t entirely convinced that puking wouldn’t be seen as a mating ritual.

Yes, that Foot Hurt girl was me. Yes, I feel dirty.

But Shawna feels guilty. Because the entire time that this was happening, Shawna, sweet, oblivious Shawna, was complaining about how the guy beside her kept falling asleep and slouching on her.