You are disgusting. No better than a rapist.
Breasts, those I can resist. Resist? Must think more on that.
But they are just mammary glands. Told myself this enough times. They’ve lost their irrational allure. Allure?
All language is patriarchal. But I’m a much better person now. Now that I’ve said it enough times: Mammary glands. I know it’s true. Scientific.
And the gluteus maximus. A muscle. Strength. A woman’s strength. A sign of power, fertility. Wait, fertility? Is that OK? Can’t remember. Have to ask Meredith. She knows these things. A degree in women’s studies. From Berkeley. A real authority.
But the back of a woman’s thigh, the curve, especially when she is sitting. Like this woman here. The curve… Stop looking!
No better than a rapist.
My progressive friends, what would they think? Educated, smart, liberal, and here I am, objectifying this woman’s… quick! Google!
“Hamstring.”
That’s it?
OK. Hamstring. Hamstring. A muscle. Strength. Used for…
Google!
“… walking, squatting, bending your knees, and tilting your pelvis.”
Squatting? Pelvis? Ahhhhhhhhh!
And why “ham”? Ham. Something delicious.
You are disgusting! Stop it! You haven’t even eaten meat in…
Calendar!
Three years and forty-seven days. And if you eat pigs, you may as well eat dogs. No logical difference.
Or cats. Puss…
Stop it! And stop looking!
Google!
“Hamstring muscle injuries are the most common sports injury.”
Yes. A muscle. May be injured. She may be an athlete. And here I am… no, I’m not, I’m looking at my book.
Not working.
OK. Look at her eyes. The only proper way to look at a woman, the only respectable way. Her spirit, her intelligence. But then there’s that…
Hamstring! Muscle! Meat!
I’ll gouge out your eyes!
Ow! Wow, my fingernails, they really went right in. This hurts. I can’t quite see. But maybe it’s better like this. I’ll look up, and… still there!
Muscle. Meat. Ham.
Ow!
Why did she look at me?
“Are you OK?”
Can’t answer her. Can’t look up. I might look at… OK! Look at her eyes! Stare at her eyes!
She’s leaving. Hastily. Almost dropped her tablet.
I made her uncomfortable. Objectified. No better than a rapist.
Other people, there are a lot of people here. Did they notice?
Have to go! Go! Get away!
Damn! My coffee cup. Have to go back. There’s no guarantee what they’ll do with it. This is New York. Not the West Coast.
The cup. Still there. I have it.
Maybe women should just cover up, only show their eyes, so that… What are you saying?! You are the problem! You! You!
On the sidewalk. OK. At least now I can do something good: remove plastic coffee lid, put in the side pocket of my backpack. Take home to recycle. This is New York, not the West Coast. There may not be a recycling bin, there probably won’t be. I shouldn’t even look for one. It’ll make me angry when I don’t pass one. But, seriously, what the hell is wrong with this city?
It is good to be away from the café.
The café? Did any of that happen? Maybe it didn’t. I think it can’t have happened. I’m a progressive. Smart. Educated. Liberal. I’ve lived on the West Coast, studied Eastern religion.
I think none of it happened. But my eyes, they hurt, I can’t see well.
Phone! Reverse camera!
Wow. They look really red. Bloody? Maybe. I’ll need a doctor.
OK. Garbage can. No recycling bin, of course. Coffee cup goes in the garbage. Can’t be recycled. A fine layer of polyethylene. This I know. Not everyone does. One of the most common recycling mistakes. But I know better. But why aren’t there more recycling bins? In a city like New York? I should go back to the West Coast, as a protest, a form of activism. If enough people left New York because of a lack of public recycling bins, it could create real change.
Oh hell!
Forgot to take the paper sleeve off the cup. Hurry! Hurry! Someone might throw something on top of it. If it gets dirty, it can’t be recycled. Can’t recycle dirty paper. Not everyone knows that.
Walking as fast as I can. Don’t worry about the car, it will—
Jesus Christ! That was close. OK, there’s the bin. And there it is! Unsullied! Got it!
But what was that? What did I touch? Something soft, a bit moist. A discarded meal? Full of saliva…
Focus! Sleeve in backpack, cup back in garbage.
But what was that? Probably food garbage. Someone’s saliva. Bacteria, maybe a virus, maybe a new one no one has heard of yet. Could it have gotten on the paper sleeve? It could. Must leave it in the pocket. How long do viruses live on paper coffee cup sleeves? Must look it up. Later.
Now, don’t touch anything, find a bathroom. Starbucks!
Won’t buy anything, of course, an evil corporation. But good for a free bathroom. Hopefully, no one I know will see me come out. If they do, I will explain. Just for the free bathroom.
OK. Hands washed. And I’ll leave everything in the pocket, won’t touch it for however long.
Or… could the virus have gone through my skin when I touched it? Through a cut on my hand?
Look! Yes, a cut! A small cut from two days ago. Can’t tell if it’s healed. Can’t see well enough. I’ll have to be prepared. First sign of illness, I’ll go to a doctor. They’ll fix it. I trust doctors. I’m not a dumb conservative.
Everything is going to be OK. I think.
But god, it’s hot! Am I sick already? Impossible!
Weather app!
Only seventy-two. Feels hotter. The sun.
It’s just the sun.
But could the virus go through the fabric of my bag? Get everywhere? Infect everything inside? No, probably not, but I don’t know for sure.
God, it’s hot.
There! A recycling bin! Down that alley! A huge one!
“For use by residents of blah blah only.”
Capitalism. Evil. The devil…
No, not devil! Left over from my upbringing.
I’m not a Christian anymore. I’ve evolved.
No god. No devil. I’m nothing like my parents. Nothing like the past. Nothing like my home.
Parents? Home?
Don’t cry! What’s wrong with you?
Stop crying! You are not lonely. You have friends. Lots of them. And all progressive, educated, smart.
Focus! You are recycling this lid.
…
Everything slipping into… Vishnu.
Out of one of his pores, a new universe being born.
A recycled universe. Recycled soul.
Everything shaking. Ignore it. Lifting off the ground? Part of reincarnation. Floating, up.
Hurtling forward. Pain. Broken glass. Ignore it!
Stay here. Stay with the beautiful dream.
Pressure. Glass shattering. Shattering through me.
Vishnu.
Recycled.