Every woman has a story that starts out like this one.
Recently when I was walking from the bus stop to my house, there was a very intoxicated middle-aged man up ahead yelling in a jovial manner at people as they walked past. It was just late enough that all the restaurants were closed, but there was still a lot of foot traffic along the streets, so I felt safe.
I already knew that he wouldn’t just yell at me as I passed. Because if you’re a young woman walking alone that’s an invitation for conversation, obviously.
I walk past as purposefully and swiftly as I can. Of course, the drunk man gets up and starts walking alongside me, talking at me. I smile grimly, and make it clear I don’t want to engage. During a lull in his rambling, I try to fall back, but he walks back to me. He starts asking me questions about myself, and I explain that I’m in a rush to get home and don’t really have time to talk. I pick up my pace, but he keeps up. I start looking for a break in traffic so I can cross the road. By this stage he seems to be a bit offended that I’m not answering any of his questions. “I just want to know your name, okay?”
I should say at this point that he was not especially threatening – I’m sure you all know the sort: congenial drunk man who will just not leave you the fuck alone – but I was getting quite distressed. It was close to the turn off of my street, and I did not want him following me any further.
A young guy walks past and I try to make eye contact, but he keeps his head down. The drunk man keeps asking me why I don’t want to talk to him – and to be completely honest I am now on the verge of angry-crying because in what fucking universe do I have to explain this?