Wednesday, February 18, 2009

She's Royal

He made his approach and I automatically resigned myself for a potential confrontation. He looked shifty, and obviously careless in the way that he had put himself together, walking with a cocky strut that screamed to one and all that he owned the sidewalk.

I clutched my illegal mace tighter in my hand, eyes surreptitiously surveying the darkened walkway, and wondered if I should casually saunter across the parking lot, out of his general purview. Would this potentially irritate him further? Should my pride come before my safety?

I resigned myself to standing my ground as I trudged along the sidewalk, facing my potential doom, as my imagination covered his face with a Jason-esque hockey mask, and knowing full well that there was a knife in his pocket, waiting to plunge betwixt my heaving bosom, or even worse, a thorny disease ridden penis waiting to thrust callously between my protesting legs.

Sweat dripped from my armpits as we drew closer. I stared aggressively ahead, brows furrowed aggressively as I made eye contact, aptly demonstrating that I was not the prey. I was indeed the predator. My finger tightened on the trigger as I mentally calibrated the wind direction and sheer, prepared to angle my body in the most advantageous position, prepared to attack, or to launch my defense.

His beady eyes and mine made four, as he nodded his head casually, and said, “My Queen,” walking along his merry way. Poor thing was unaware of his near miss. He almost received a savage beat-down from my contraband canister, as supplemented by my hands of steel (as I don a Bruce Lee pose).

I listened carefully to his retreating footsteps, as I hastened along to my car, puzzled and somehow let down from the abrupt surge of adrenaline.

Ever since she was murdered, my entire sense of security has been messed up as we all learned that we can no longer dwell in naïve complacency on our little rock.

But, I felt terrible. Horribly guilty. Here was a man expressing his admiration for my Queen-dom (as well he should), and I had him automatically pegged as a vicious killer. I mean, what if I had maced the man and beat him down good and proper as I launched my defensive offensive?

Yet, could it have been my steely predatory glare that stayed his hand? After all, even a Queen can be assassinated…

And on that regal note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...