CLAIMING FEMALES

Every few minutes I jerk my head up.

Especially when one boards.

You’d think I’m doing a tally of sorts —

How many more until we get to leave?

I wish it were that simple.

I miss those simpler times.

When my only worry was how much longer.

How late I’d be. How tight the squeeze.

How loud the music.

Now?

That’s not the case.

Now, I scan for shadows, not songs.

I keep looking up to give a sharp glare

at any man near enough to choose my side.

I make my face say: Don’t!

As intimidating as I can muster.

A last-minute vote for personal space.

For safety.

Because I can’t afford to have my head ducked.

Not into silence, not into shame.

Not into letting things slide

just to get home quietly.

To women, though, I soften.

I give a pleading look.

Please. Sit next to me.

Save me from the chance

of having to flinch awake

with someone’s hand

where it was never invited.

I’ve discovered it’s easier when I board a bit towards the end.

Because then all window seats are claimed,

and I get the aisle.

Don’t get me wrong — I like the window seat.

But I’m not at liberty to revel in that joy anymore.

Not till a woman sits next to me.

When I board, then, I get to pick.

You already know who I sit next to.

A woman.

I’m a girls’ girl.

And when all women are claimed,

I’m a markswoman of sorts.

I scan the potential future seats.

And when her neighbor alights,

I’ll scale the mountains and wade the waters,

and I’ll be sure to claim her.

So no — these aren’t simpler times.

But I ride still.

With sharpened eyes and softened prayers.

I ride still.

Choosing where I can,

glancing where I must,

and hoping the next seat

holds more than a place —

but a pocket of peace.

Because even in this tension,

in this watching,

in this quiet war for space,

I remind myself:

I deserve to get home whole.

Not just arrived —

but unbroken.

And I know what men will say…

“Not all men.”

Yeah? But that man did.

-F. N. N-

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