Let the storms do all the dancing

The world can get scrubbed out sometimes, everything blending together until you can't remember the moment and all that is left are the ripples of consequence. Like dropping a pebble in a pool and trying to describe your reflection.

The young men of this country do not care for me. Last night, almost home from Balkan class, still giggling to myself over nearly being flung against a wall during a line dance. Three of them this time - one crosses the road while the other two stay on the other side so that I am in the centre - forced to walk between them.
FAT! FAT FAT FAT! yells one, lowering his voice so that the word is raked through his throat, spewing into the air like wet buckshot.

This is nothing new. The repetoire from the young men I've met includes the timeless "That's a huge fucken ass," or the rhythmic "extra-large EXTRA EXTRA LARGE!" Or they yell out of car windows when they pass me, to inform me that I am taking up the sidewalk.

But this time was the worst. He threw a pine cone at me. Just a pine cone. Landed near my feet, bounced two times between his chanting. The others provided back-up laughter.

And I can be bold while it is happening, look straight ahead and not down, just like I was taught in self-defence class. I can grip my keys and not respond but just keep walking.
It is always hours later that it hits me, but it gets me from the inside, like a vile of poison being broken. I can feel it ooze into me, right from the centre of my belly. And I don't feel brave, or bold or beautiful. Instead I am broken like a little child who doesn't understand why? why? why? Please please why?

When I close the curtains at night I hide myself behind it so that people who might be passing by won't see me. My impulse is to protect them from seeing me, rather than protecting me from them. Somehow I have developed this response to not burden people with having to look at me.
And I wonder if next time it will be a rock or a bottle. And I wonder if I will be strong enough to fight or whether they will catch me with my guard down. Guard up, Sophia, up up.
This is all just a bit too much honesty for one night. The moon is out and the clouds are rushing past on their way to storm parties all around Scotland. Mother Nautre - my favourite big lady - is still dancing.