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I was about two hundred

I was about two hundred feet down the sidewalk when he caught up with me.

“Wait! Wait – I’m sorry!” he said.

He turned around and walked backwards so he could face me as he talked.

“Was it something I said?” he grinned.

I shot him a death glare.

He put up his hands to ward it off. “Okay, yes, obviously it was what I said – ”

“Women are not just sexual playthings for your amusement.”

“I know that,” he said, a little taken aback.

“Not from the way you act.”

“Look, I’m just a sexual person – ”

“Who’s only interested in fucking me?”

“Whoa! Whoa, hold on there, potty mouth!” he laughed.

“Oh – I’m a potty mouth, Mr. ‘Every other word out of my mouth is fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that’? Why am I a potty mouth, because I’m a girl?”

“Hey – hey,” he said, his voice suddenly soothing. He moved beside me and touched my arm, but I shook him off roughly.

“Please, will you just listen to me?” he asked, his voice low.

“Go ahead and talk, it’s a free country,” I snarled.

“Look… I think you’re absolute
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