To Sam, please improve your facade
Mango juice, sun cream, and chlorine; the tang of cigarette smoke. The normalisation of chain-smoking. Good for now, I think, but definitely not for long-term lung health. Note to self: stop smoking. There’s a tranquility to being abroad, a peacefulness that feels almost alien. Escaping the cold. Escaping the darkness. Escaping the seasonal depression.
The new year looms ahead. New year, new me. Goals and aspirations churn in my mind. Yet, the struggle to switch off persists. I'm unused to this calm, turning relaxation itself into another task on my endless to-do list. Still, I try. I prop my feet up, willing my thoughts away from the inevitable grind of that first Monday back at work. As I edge toward a semblance of peace, I see him.
A stare, potent, unyielding, pierces through the distance. My instincts cry out in warning. Who is he? And why can’t I look away? All day, the staring continues. Questions race through my mind: What’s his story? What brought him to this hotel? Am I in danger? My moments of calm have been infiltrated by an outsider. Another normal day for someone with anxiety, I suppose. But this feels different beyond my control. I am intrigued yet scared. Fascinated but fearful.
I try to ignore him. A brief escape to the toilet; I’m on the phone when he follows me. His phone screen is thrust into my space, displaying cocaine. He wonders aloud why I won’t join him. I refuse, unsettled.
Returning to my seat, I see him again. The question of who is he won’t go away. My fight-or-flight response falters. Instead, I walk straight up to him and ask what he wants. Without hesitation, he demands my Instagram. Thankfully, I have a decoy account—filled with photos of my dog, a fluff ball of a distraction. He shows me an account with just 17 followers. His discovery page? A woman giving a blowjob. Seems legit. His next request: to come to my room. I decline, but the fear lingers as I walk away. Once again, I think I should have just smoked another cigarette and minded my own business.
Later, I’m upstairs. A loud bang on the door, it’s him again. Fear tightens its grip. I’m scared to leave my room, my fiancé annoyed at my naivety. But the questions remain. Who is this man? Why was he sitting alone, trying to cajole women into doing cocaine with him?
My investigative hat goes on. It doesn’t take long to uncover the truth. He used an alias, hiding behind a false identity. And the best part? He was there with his wife. The entitlement, the audacity. From the moment he laid eyes on me, his gaze had been a violation—an unspoken claim on my body.
