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Have an awesome night out with your friend and old roommate, Leah, at the opening of a new tattoo parlour in Toronto. Meet a dozen lovely, open people. Have easy conversations about their terror of turning 30, their dreams of being a writer in Paris, their fathers who are electricians. Free wine flows generously; imbibe liberally.

Go back to Leah’s for some much needed pizza, watching The Simpsons, and a reunion with Oliver, the black cat. Walk to St. Clair West at 1:00 am, still feeling warm from the simple pleasure of meeting new people and sharing some wine. Realize you just missed the streetcar and start heading east; keep moving to stave off the cold.

After walking a few blocks, notice two very large men sauntering towards you and swinging takeout bags. Think, “oh shit” despairingly as your hands turn clammy and your stomach drops, and see that it’s too late to cross the street without drawing more attention to yourself. Immediately start gauging the distance left before you have to walk by them – the gap is closing fast. Subtly scan the area for signs of other people, in case you need to run, to scream, to fight.

They start to pass by you, these two men in dark clothes with beards who are easily 250 pounds each. There’s no way to predict whether a man will pass you by without saying a word, or turn to corner you against the darkened storefront glass. It’s a gamble, every single time.

You try to keep your steps measured, determined. To falter is to invite a reaction. You stare straight ahead, draw your shoulders inward and your purse closer towards your side. Maybe this visceral spasm of fear in your heart, this surge of raw adrenaline, will result in just another false alarm.

Not tonight. The men whistle admiringly as you walk past. They stop and turn towards you, their arms outstretched and welcoming. It’s just a friendly question, after all:

“Where’s the party tonight? You like to party?”

Say nothing. Keep walking.

Their attention immediately turns malicious. They are filled with bitter resentment that you have ignored their lovely invitation. One sneers, “Oh, so you’re a snob. Would you look at this snob?”

They spit out a stream of invective at your receding back. “You’re a fucking slut. Walking right by. You hear me? You’re a slut. Fuck. You.”

Don’t turn back, don’t slow down. Walk away as the men continue swearing at you, screaming “slut” and “fucking bitch” until you are out of hearing range. They don’t follow you out of rage – this time. They will continue on home without needing to turn back to check the street every few minutes. They will forget about the incident in moments, their attention shifting easily to the more immediately rewarding bags of takeout.

Finally dare to exhale the breath you’ve been holding clenched in your lungs all this time, tight like a fist.