Intro – Heat, Hunger, and an Iced Coffee Fix
The air outside clung to us like a damp towel, thick with the leftover breath of the midday sun. My shirt stuck to my back, Mama Chaos’s fringe plastered to her forehead, and in both our hands—two bottles of water that had already lost their chill. We’d just come off a temple run, the kind that leaves your calves humming and your brain thinking of only one thing: iced coffee.
The sliding doors of 7-Eleven hissed open, and the smell hit instantly—microwaved curry puffs, instant noodles, and the sugary haze from racks of bread that looked more plastic than pastry. The air-conditioning wasn’t Arctic, but it was enough to make us pause, breathe, and pretend we could live there if we asked nicely. We shuffled toward the counter, me already picturing that sweating plastic cup, beads of condensation rolling down the sides, the first gulp cutting through the heat like shade on a white-hot pavement.
The Stranger Who Wouldn’t Quit
The hum of the refrigerators was the store’s heartbeat, steady and low, a white noise that let my thoughts drift toward caffeine. That’s when he stepped in — Indian-ish looking, moving like someone who wasn’t sure where to go but knew he wanted to go there with me.
“Oh, is this a line?”
I didn’t bother with a full smile. “Kind of-ish. You can stand with me, but there are two cashiers, so you can use another line.”
That should’ve been the end of it. But his voice came again, cutting through the quiet queue shuffle.
“Oh, where are you from?”
Half-turn. “Finland.”
Turn back to Mama Chaos. Case closed.
Except he kept peeling the lid off a conversation I’d already shut.
“Oh, I want to go there.”
I gave him the bare minimum. “Good luck.”
Turned away. Done.
But apparently, my definition of “done” wasn’t his.
“Oh, and that’s all? Good luck? Is it how your parents raised you? To disrespect others? Am I not human?”
Mama’s brow pinched, her eyes scanning my face for a clue as to how we’d landed here. I just stared past him, that internal b***, you okay? loud in my own head.
He ranted for a full two minutes — about how I was disrespectful, racist, badly raised, and everything else he could toss in. Me and Mama?
Still at the counter.
No words. No expression. Just standing there waiting for coffee like nothing happened.
Then he walked out.
And while stepping through the sliding doors, he turned back — looked over his shoulder, tall enough to try to loom — checking if we’d react.
We didn’t.
Final Thoughts
Here’s what I don’t get:
When exactly did walking through the world as a woman mean you’ve gotta be “available” for conversation? For compliments? For questioning?
I’m standing in a 7-Eleven, dripping sweat, clutching warm water bottles, dreaming of iced coffee — not applying for Miss Congeniality.
He asks, I answer. That should’ve been it.
But no. Apparently, silence equals disrespect now. Apparently, “good luck” is offensive.
He wanted a performance. I gave him a full-face turn and a back. That’s all. No tip-toeing, no softening, no sugarcoating. Just: not interested.
And for the inevitable “what were you wearing” crowd:
A floor-length skirt. A loose T-shirt. A sun shield over it all. Nothing see-through. Nothing tight. The only skin visible? My face and hands.
So go peddle that victim-blaming elsewhere.
Afterthought
There are only two groups of people who feel entitled to a stranger’s time:
Scammers… and men.
You don’t owe either of them a damn thing.
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