I see you, even though I don’t look. I don’t need to. I sense you. Call it a sixth sense. Ask any woman.

The store seems oddly empty. Why aren’t there more people? Less witnesses. Maybe he feels emboldened.

I feel your stare to my core. Like a predator stalking its prey. But I don’t dare lock eyes with you. I stand my ground. I read the magazines, appear listless. I look at my cart: fresh flowers, organic red wine, and portobello mushrooms. Small pleasures.

I’m glad I’m wearing a loose-fitting top and sweats. I’m glad I didn’t put on makeup. I’m glad I’m wearing a mask. I don’t exist for your viewing pleasure.

Are you that guy who got me drunk and took me to your apartment? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. As we advance in line and I see you checking out, it sure looks like you from behind. Those oddly pointy ears. But you must’ve lost weight. Same frame.

I don’t linger. I don’t look for you in the parking lot. I get in my car, jazz music softly in the background, and I drive off into the sunset. You are invisible, you are nothing. You could have been him, you could have been a stranger. I choose not to look. I choose not to care. Stare at me all you want, I don’t exist for you.