by EW

published March 9, 2018

this past weekend three different men, on three separate occasions, called
to me across a room full of people. i swear their voices all sounded the
same with my name on their lips.

eye contact. i turned every time—the ever eager subject responding to
my hail. YOU. HEY. GIRL. HEY. LADY. YOU. WOMAN. HEY. YOU. each time i was stunned, and somewhat affronted. i know them all, but not well. ballsy
bold, i thought. you're making a scene. not self-conscious? unimaginable.

after it happened for the last time on sunday afternoon, i decided this
sort of social bravado had but one explanation: a figure from my past
(or future) was inhabiting the body of these men, calling out to me,
desperately trying to warn me.

of what? another storm to rip open my kitchen window? tiny hands?
pregnancy? (mom, is that you?) or, could it be, could it really be, the last
gasping breath of white-cis-hetero-patriarchy, making itself known to me
one final goddamn time?

me too, fuckers.