After running around in the heat of a South Carolina sun all day, I didn’t think there was anything that could scare you. We wandered from pier to pier, picking up nearly every shell on the shores of Myrtle Beach and kicking over abandoned sand castles. After a long day of pink streamer bike rides and arcade bubble gum, it was time to rinse off the day and rinse the sand out of our Kool-Aid dyed hair.

When I was five, I got a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos, stars on blue bottoms, a golden eagle on the camisole, which my dad called a wife-beater. I blasted around the yard, kicking Nazis, saving drippy Steve Trevor. The world had clean edges. I was a goddess, a force. Wham! Pow! Look out bad guys. My mom called me inside; I was just in my underwear, and what would the neighbors think.

Why didn’t I follow my first impulse and bolt out into the night? If my boyfriend came home and hit me in the face, I would have left. Instead, he broke a lamp, smiling, while I begged him to stop. That smile terrified me. But he didn’t touch me, and all he said were the words I screamed at him when he stumbled into the room drunk for the third night in a row, turning them into questions.

On tiptoes, I stretched to replace the binder in the metal cubby. I was shocked to feel cold, clammy hands on my back, sliding into the waist band of my skirt. I spun around.

It was him again.

The other day, I was walking outside to eat my lunch.  I prefer to eat outside as it gives me an opportunity to see the sun, get some fresh air, and get away from the noise that permeates an open work space. The path I take to the outside takes me through the cafeteria/eating hall area.