The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,68

okay, Alice,” she tried to appease me. “We don’t have to make a big deal about it. I’m only sorry I let her get the best of me.”

“No, it is a big deal,” I emphasized. “No one has the right to talk to you or treat you like that.” I started to rant. “That woman can’t get away with this. I want her picture up at every baseball stadium.” I swung my arms, and my body vibrated with agitation. “I want her banned from sports forever; I want—.”

My next thought was abruptly cut off by Anissa’s lips on mine. Her kiss efficiently silenced my indignation. Her fingers curled around my ears and brushed at the nape of my neck. The intensity and feeling and sweetness behind the embrace melted away my rage, and I momentarily forgot we were kissing in a public bathroom at a baseball game.

Anissa eventually broke off the kiss, but her hands remained on either side of my face. Her caramel-colored eyes scanned my features, looking for what, I couldn’t tell. A small, sad smile played at her lips. “Let’s get out of here, okay?”

I swallowed down my leftover rage. “Okay.”

Her hands left my face, but her right hand took up residency in mine. In the background, I noted a cheer erupting from the stands—our team must have finally done something good—but the score of the baseball game was the farthest thing from my mind.

We walked out of the stadium together, hand in hand. As we crossed a busy intersection to return to the underground parking lot, Anissa slipped her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I should have been jubilant about the open intimacy, but Anissa hadn’t spoken a word since we’d left the women’s bathroom.

I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing in leaving the game. A part of me worried that I’d too readily run from confrontation. I should have insisted on challenging the woman whose hate speech had made Anissa cry in a public bathroom. That would have been the right thing—the brave thing—to do.

I could only imagine what it must be like to be a person of color in this country. I was gay, but I was also femme and could pass for straight. I had the privilege of choosing who to Come Out to and when to be openly affectionate in public. It certainly wasn’t easy being queer in America, but Anissa would have experienced triple jeopardy as a queer woman of color as well as guilt by association for being tenuously connected to the Middle East.

It was just layer after layer of discrimination and oppression. My heart ached for her.

Anissa only untangled herself from my side when we reached my parked car. We had to detach to get into the car, but I didn’t like it. I wanted to scoop her up and put her in my protective pocket, away from all the hate and ugliness. But it wasn’t my job to save her. She’d been doing a fine job long before I came along.

Anissa broke the silence once we were outside of my car. “Do you mind if we go back to your place?”

“Your house is closer,” I pointed out.

“I know. But I’d like to see where you live.”

“It’s nothing special,” I resisted.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t see where you live?” she questioned. “Do you have a secret, double life I don’t know about?”

“Just poverty,” I tried to joke.

Anissa didn’t laugh or even smile, but I didn’t blame her. It wasn’t very funny.

“I’ll take you to my place,” I gave in.

As I steered my car in the direction of my apartment, Anissa continued to sit in silence. She leaned her head against the passenger side window and stared outside. The final inning of the baseball game played quietly in the background on my car radio.

“I’m sorry,” I heard her quiet murmur.

“For what?” I glanced briefly in her direction. Her eyes were closed and her head was still against the window.

“We were having such a nice day.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tried to insist.

She sighed, but didn’t make additional comment.

“Does that happen a lot?” I knew she probably just wanted to put the day’s events in the rearview mirror, but I couldn’t help asking.

Anissa regarded me with a frown. “I don’t know what a lot is. Everyday? No. Once a month? Probably.” She sat up straighter and ran her fingers through her hair. Her thick, careful curls had somewhat wilted under the