By Elizabeth “Liz” Enochs
Maybe he’ll corner me in the elevator; rip my tights, leave me torn. Maybe he’ll tell me to keep quiet. Maybe he’ll tell me to get loud. Maybe I smile too much; my lipstick is a neon sign. Maybe he’ll use fingers. He wears a gun and handcuffs; maybe he’ll use those.
Maybe he’ll just kiss me.
“Do the elevators have cameras?” I ask my boss.
He is perplexed: “They don’t.”
Maybe I should take the stairs.
When the new security guard starts patrolling campus, I notice him noticing me and my thoughts are dark. I have a “go bag” stashed in my house; I have emergency canned goods stacked in a kitchen cabinet. I have water, running shoes, a sleeping bag, and an atlas in the trunk of my car. I have a stun gun for solo road trips, a hunting knife for solo hikes. I’m 34 and I have a notarized Missouri Medical POA. I like to be prepared. I like to feel safe. I don’t know how to feel safe with men.
Maybe I never did.
The security guard tells me he’s a father, a husband. He likes black coffee; he’s building a house.
“Did you get to hang out with your boys?” I ask him when summer ends.
He’s not new anymore, and we are friendly. Still, I notice him noticing me and I am prepared.
I have two morning after pills hidden in my bathroom. I bought them right before the fall of Roe. I’ve taken Plan B twice. I cramped; I cried in the shower. I survived. I’ll do it all a third time if I must.
I have a friend who works as an evidence collection nurse — scooping DNA, gathering information. Maybe I’ll text her after, ask her to drive me to the hospital.
Maybe I won’t tell anyone for a long time. Maybe I won’t tell anyone ever.
Maybe I’ll just take a pill, take a shower, and survive.
Elizabeth “Liz” Enochs is a queer writer from southeast Missouri. She’s also the author of the nonfiction prose chapbook, Leaving the House Unlocked. More often than not, you’ll find her in the woods. To read more of Liz’s writing, visit her website: elizabethenochs.com.
MoonPark Review 