It’s time to step outside yourself again.
            The store is close enough that taking an Uber feels superfluous but far enough for you to dread walking there at this time. The thing is, it’s not even dark—it’s the fact that it will be before long that bothers you. The streets are among the things that make you feel unsafe.
            You wouldn’t be doing this without good reason. You’re on your last tampon, and that’s only because your friend was visiting over the weekend and happened to be early. You’d counted on not being early yourself, and of course that was exactly what happened, hence your excursion. You’d left as soon as you had a free moment. But it’s never early enough. You have mace, though. That fixes everything.
            You’re also wearing the appropriate gear. Baggy shirt, dark sweats, so nothing accentuates your body. Messy bun. No makeup. RBF. Unflattering glasses. Even a mask, so no one can decide whether you’re attractive or not.
            The mask might count against you, though. You saw someone on Twitter saying he got attacked for it while jogging the other day, and your county is rather purple.
            Your movements are slower than usual, aren’t as fluid as you’d like. You’re bogged down by cramps. They’re not so bad right now, but they’ll get there if you move too fast. The roads are mostly clear, since rush hour is past. You’ll probably have enough time to clear the crosswalks comfortably. There also seem to be plenty of people out and about, which could be a good or a bad thing. Many of them hold grocery bags, like you will soon if all goes well. Some are on their phones. Some are sitting at curbs, either waiting for a ride in this heat or they’re homeless. You shouldn’t think anything of their homelessness. You know that they’re likelier to be victims of crimes rather than perpetrators. Don’t demonize them like society does, even if it’s just to yourself. Just walk past and act as if you don’t see them.
            Just in the last week, a man was arrested a few blocks away for having stabbed and killed four homeless people. Nothing about his photo surprised you: doughy freckled face, straw-colored hair, vacant green eyes. Probably owned a red pickup. Of course, three of his victims were women. It freaked you out. Even your parents heard about it. They assured you that you’d be fine because you weren’t homeless. But that doesn’t make the women any less female than you. The news article said that though their bodies had been discovered sometime between 9:00 a.m. and noon, the attacks had happened between 2:00 and 3:00, in the dead of the night. What if some of them hadn’t died instantly? Imagine dying for over seven hours. Maybe they could have been saved if anyone noticed. Imagine knowing you’ve been stabbed and waiting for help that you knew wouldn’t come.
            Is there a reason why it couldn’t be you? Say you were kidnapped. How long would it take for anyone to notice? You live alone. Your parents live out of state. You have friends, sure. But they have better things to worry about. It would take at least a few days, and then there’d be no nationwide search. You’re no Gabby Petito. There’s even a movie coming out about it. It could have been high-profile because she was a budding influencer and was documenting the trip. But you know all about Missing White Woman Syndrome. You remember the chills you got when reading about all the bodies they’d unearthed while looking for her. Hundreds of indigenous people, most of them women, had disappeared there too. There was also Lauren Cho, missing for over three months before they found her. You’ll never forget her face. There’s no reason that couldn’t be you. Asians are invisible anyway.
            You’re halfway to the store now. You can see it in the distance, against the dusky sky. The air quality is so bad here. Everything is gray. It makes it darker and harder to see. Sometimes it even smells like smoke-singed piss.
            You pause as you notice something on the ground: at first glance, it looked like debris or plastic, but now you can see that it’s a pair of wings. What an eerie sight. Two spreadeagled wings, no head, tail, or body connecting them. The feathers are gelled to the ground, so they’ve been here a while, but not that long, since they still look soft and clean. You can see the ridges of bone connecting all the angles beneath the gray feathers with iridescent scales of emerald and lavender splashed across them. The wings belonged to a pigeon, then. The pigeons in this area are quite stupid, or perhaps too trusting. They get way too close. You’ve seen many a pigeon get run over by cars. Your friend theorized that their diet is quite poor, too, since they live off scraps on the sidewalk, most of which are very carby. Makes it harder for them to run away.
            You make your way to the crosswalk. The traffic light is green, so you’ll have to wait a bit. As you approach, you notice someone pacing in the vicinity. The silhouette is large and amorphous, and, on closer examination, you can see that it’s because the person is wearing a bunch of sagging garbage bags. They’re yelling something, to no one in particular. It sounds like a man. As you draw nearer, it looks like a man. You know not to act as though you see him. He’s probably on drugs, or mentally ill, or mentally ill because of the drugs.
            You stop at the crosswalk and press the Walk button. Wait, the automated voice instructs. The man is still pacing in circles. You have no idea what his face looks like because you’re pointedly not looking. He’s shouting about laundromats. He turns and sees you.
            “You got nice tits,” he yells.
            Of course you don’t say anything.
            “YOU GOT NICE TITS!”
            Seems he really needs you to know that.
            “Fine-ass bitch, damn. Clap them cheeks. S’what I’m talking about.”
            Your hand slides into your pocket; you’re dismayed to realize that your mace isn’t there. You must have put it in your backpack. If you try taking it out now, it would be too obvious.
            “Are we gonna fuck?”
            At least your apartment keys are in your pocket. Your hand closes around them now. You could gouge his eyes out if he comes too close, and he is in fact taking a few steps your way.
            “Are we gonna fuck?”
            But you’ve never done that before. You’ve never actually even sprayed mace at anyone before. Not unless you count your ex-boyfriend in college asking you to spray him just to test it out. You’d stood more than two armlengths away, and even then he was gagging into the toilet for minutes afterward, which made you feel like shit.
            “ARE WE GONNA FUCK RIGHT NOW?”
            The light turns red, the walk symbol flashes on, and you set off on the crosswalk.
            You’re trying not to tremble as you gain distance. Nothing happened. Likely nothing was going to happen either. But you still hate him. You wish you could have told him to piss off. You wish you could have said, Actually, I have amazing tits, and you’re never going to have anything to do with them, you dirty, gross, broke-ass animal fuck. The nerve of you to make a pass at me. Stay in your lane. But you’re not anti-homeless. He’s just on drugs and will probably forget you in the morning.
            Now that you think about it, this shirt is snugger around your chest. Your sweats aren’t baggy either. It makes sense that he’d notice. You have looser clothing than this that you could have worn. These sweats are more comfortable and utilitarian when you’re on your period, though. Were they worth the scare? You can already feel the ache in your abdomen growing more pronounced. You didn’t know he’d be there, but you could have assumed. Things like this have happened before. You know better than to act like they won’t. Once in college, you were walking from campus and a man and woman were walking in your direction. The woman pointed at you and called, “You got big tiddies” in a singsong voice. The guy with her guffawed hysterically. The whole thing had rattled you, and no, it wasn’t better than if she had been a man.
            You let go of your keys; you didn’t realize until now that the grooves had started digging into your palm. You decide to stay at the store longer than you’d planned in case he’s still there when you get out. Or you’ll take the longer way home. The longer way is going to be harder to walk with your cramps, and there are also fewer streetlights, so you’ll need to pace yourself.
            You think about the last time something like this had happened. It was last month. Broad daylight, not even 4:00 p.m.. You were walking home. Someone was coming through the gate of your complex. The person was walking toward a car, and at first it seemed like it was their ride, but then they started checking their reflection in the mirror, preening.
They caught sight of you and stopped. They realized you saw them. They walked toward you purposefully. Their arms were outstretched. You sidestepped off the curb to allow them to pass you, but they steered back in front of you again and said something, but aside from the word “honey” at the end, you couldn’t make it out over the hammering of your heart in your ears. They reached long, manicured hands to your face, cupping you around the cheeks, and, too jarred to say or do anything else, you elbowed the hands out of the way and kept moving. You made sure to look back to see if you were being followed.
            By the time you stepped into your apartment, you were wondering whether you ought to tell someone about it. The person lived in your apartment complex. You were pretty sure you’d seen them around before, too—they weren’t exactly someone who’d blend into most crowds. Your parents would just freak out and tell you to move back home, though. Or get a car, when you’re barely squeaking by on rent. Or get married, like you could do that overnight. You settled on sending your brother a casual text about it, even adding a lol at the end.
            You’ll never forget how quickly your phone lit up and started vibrating once the text receipt changed to “read.”
            “What’s going on? What’s with your text?” he’d asked.
            “Oh, nothing,” you’d said, working to keep the shake out of your laugh. “It was just a weird thing that happened, that’s all.”
            “Then why are you telling me about it?”
            “What do you mean? Why not?”
            “If it’s no big deal, why’d you text me?”
            “Because! I just thought someone ought to know.”
            “Why?”
            “I don’t know, just in case, like, I see the person around again and he tries something . . .”
            “Ha!” His voice was triumphant. “So you ARE worried about that. Then it is a big deal. That’s what I was trying to get you to say. Why didn’t you call the cops? What am I supposed to do? What do you think I can even do from here? Report this right now.”
            You’d hastened to tell him you didn’t want to involve police over this; it’s a hassle, plus he’s no stranger to the dialogue around that. What kind of minority would you be if you trusted the police?
            “Then tell your management. Come on, make sure someone there knows! You think I want to read in the news that you were found beaten up somewhere? What would Mom and Dad say if they found out I’d known all along?”
            “Don’t tell them,” you’d pleaded. “I’ll tell management. I’ll make sure they know.” You were lying, and he probably knew you were. What if the person found out about your complaint and knew you were the one who made it? What if they came looking for you? You’re five foot three and have never been athletic.
            “Don’t you at least have pepper spray or something? Every woman I know does. Carry it on you, for fuck’s sake.” He wasn’t usually that abrasive. You could tell he was trying not to panic, which always manifests as hostility. You’d felt bad for dumping this on him in the middle of the day. He was probably at work.
            “I do,” you’d said. “I’ll make sure I never leave without it.”
            “You should remember his description, too. Make sure you write it down.” He softened a bit, which you were grateful for. “What did he look like?”
            As you walk the last crosswalk before the store, you recall your answer. You’d told him everything. You try to repeat it to yourself now: Likely male but femininely dressed. Maybe genderfluid or gay. Skinny jeans. Leopard-print crop top. Long nails, manicured in different colors. Close-cropped curly hair, platinum blonde. Average height and build. Makeup, false lashes. Race—
            No, I don’t want to say that. I don’t want to.
            You have to be objective. You heard your brother. He was upset when you started doing this, and he was right to be.
            I don’t want to, though. I don’t want to be that person. Things are bad enough already.
            They’re not bad enough for you? Who do you think you should be protecting?
            It’s worse for them. I only got here now. They’ve been suffering for centuries.
            That doesn’t make it okay.
            It’s over. I never saw him again. He was probably high, too. His eyes were glazed over.
            So was the guy at the traffic light. Is everyone who threatens you high? Why do you think people can just do this to you?
            They didn’t. The homeless guy didn’t touch me and the other person barely did.
            And what if they did? Do you want to be another statistic?
            People like when we fight. Divide and rule was the Romans’ motto. We’re pitted against each other, and they’re the ones who benefit. It doesn’t serve us to play into that.
            So it serves you to be assaulted? Don’t people have brains? Can’t they NOT do that? Or can they just not help assaulting you? You’re the racist here.
            I’m not trying to make a big deal of stuff. I have it better. White people think Asians are the better minority. They use us to demonize them, always have. It’s not fair.
            You’re not what they think of when they think of Asians. You’re not even the first thing most Asians think of when they think of Asians.
            I’m fine with that. East Asians are getting hatecrimed left and right these days, thanks to the “China Virus” bullshit. They need the awareness more.
            Like that hasn’t been happening to people like you since 9/11? How many of your family and friends had to stop wearing hijab, again? Oh, and let’s not forget that you’re not the first thing people think of when they think “Muslim,” either. Arabs are.
            It’s not a competition. And the hijab is a fraught garment everywhere anyway.
            Remember how everyone was touting Crazy Rich Asians for its “groundbreaking” representation? The only people in that movie who looked like you didn’t even have speaking roles. They were service workers. You don’t even have a Disney princess.
            I don’t even really look like me though. My skin is lighter. I’m privileged. People have mistaken me for all kinds of things. I’m not the first thing people think of when they think of South Asians. And Disney is corporate greed.
            That just means you’re even more invisible. You’re never thought of.
            Does it? Doesn’t my ambiguous ethnicity give me more mobility across social groups? People have called me a chameleon. There’s even times I’ve gone along with it when faced with the where are you froms and what are yous. Doesn’t that make me complicit?
            How many times do you think other people hear that, “Where are you from?” How about the “Go back to where you came from”? Whites, next to never. Millions of Hispanic peoples are native to several states, and the rest would have come from just down south. African Americans are hardly ever seen as foreign—the least this country can do for them after all they’ve been subjected to. Indigenous people, does more need to be said? You’re the real outsider. You’re the one they’ll never see as legitimate. And not just white people, either.
            Stop saying “they.” Don’t do that. We should aspire to solidarity. We need each other. We’re natural allies. Don’t forget about the ones who protected me and did nice things for me. One nutjob doesn’t change that.
            Because it’s really just one, right? What about half the guys who ever catcalled you?
            I lived in a demographically skewed area; of course they’d make up a lot of my interactions. And again, catcalling isn’t assault.
            How about that guy from the dorms who chased after you in the hall while you were taking out your trash and grabbed you in his arms from behind because “you were just so cute”? It freaked you out, but you never did anything about it. Your friends later told you he had a “Muslim fetish.” Still think they’re always victims? By the way, plenty of whites have protected you, but you still don’t protect the ones who don’t.
            It was a hug. It was weird, but it didn’t hurt. I know what it feels like when something a man does hurts. The dorm guy never did anything to me again. What difference would I have made by reporting it? He could have come under some serious fire. The response would have been disproportional. It always is when the guy isn’t white. Wouldn’t I have been complicit? Wouldn’t I be committing more harm than good by implicating someone from an oppressed group when that person didn’t commit the level of felony that would justify—
            Enough.
            You step into the store, finding relief in the blast of AC that meets your face as you walk in. You make your way to the Women’s Hygiene aisle and take what you need. Then you go to the condiments and get a jar of pickles so that you’ll have something hard in your shopping bag in case someone accosts you.
            Your cousin told you that when she was in college, she used to walk the streets with an empty glass bottle so she could smash it over heads if need be. Your coworker Zuri never leaves a building without making sure her phone is fully charged. One of your classmates from your graduate seminar a few years ago, Rocio, casually pulled out a steak knife sealed in a Ziplock bag from her backpack while digging for a pen once. “Oh, hell yeah, no one’s sneaking up on me,” she’d said when someone asked if she always carried that.
            You pay for your items and then make sure to take the mace out of your bag so you can have it in your hand on the way back. It was actually the phone call with your brother that made you get this. If he hadn’t mentioned it, you’d never have discovered that the pepper spray you had was expired by a few months. That was the day you bought the one you’re holding now.
            You’d found it online. It’s a light mauve color called “dusk purple” and has four indents on the side for your fingers to close around. It even has a keychain. It’s one of the only things you own that you hope you’ll never need. The other is the fire extinguisher.
            You step outside the store, preparing yourself for the walk home. A police car is stationed in the parking lot. Another one is making rounds down the street. This means you may not have to take the longer way. You begrudge yourself for feeling a little less unsafe seeing them there. It’s fine, because it’s not as if you have to tell them or anyone else that. You never have to say anything to anyone. Things are probably better that way. You whisper the safar ki dua, the prayer your mother taught you to say before journeys. The night sky is a smoky violet, a dense smattering of clouds strewn about. One of them has jagged edges, which makes it look like a pair of open jaws, frozen in an attempt to ensnare the half-moon whole.

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