How did I feel about it? Shaken to my very
core. When it was happening -- embarrassed
for him, that very old man with the hobbled gait
and white head whose hand I suddenly felt
groping under my briefcase laid in my lap
on the bus travelling to my workplace. His
face when I turned to look revealed nothing
features stolid, eyes straight ahead but this was
not my imagination; each time I thrust his hand
off me it was returned. As strong as I was -- a
woman in her mature years -- he was, this pitiful
old man, stronger as his hand disembodied from
his control groped and gripped until I fled. Not
a word, anxious no one should know. He would be
long dead now, and I am now his age. Importuned
by young men on social media though I have
posted my age. Pitiable the birthright of pure male
entitlement, no less so my restraint in hesitating to
bring embarrassment to uncontrite moral morons.
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