It had been a while since Flora had thought to worry about being appraised by men. As far as she was concerned, that ship sailed long ago. It happened gradually, then suddenly. As in: suddenly, no one with a dick seemed to much pay attention to her at all. Or so she believed. But then, one night on the train, she realized she had been a fool to ever let her guard down. A woman, regardless of age, should never do that. No matter how “stale” she thinks she’s become (which is an easy narrative to buy into within the current climate of youth and beauty obsession on a scale never seen before).

As usual, she was minding her own business, reading a book (this week’s title was Repent in Haste by John P. Marquand). It wasn’t so much as a blip on her radar that anyone might be staring at her. Not just anyone, of course, but a man. Of the gray-haired variety. Well, what was left of his hair anyway. She happened to glance up and catch him looking directly at her. She could think of no reason why he would have cause to. It wasn’t as if she was wearing anything “salacious.” In fact, she was wearing an oversized jacket modeled after the USCSS Nostromo crew one from Alien. Maybe that’s what was really attracting his attention. Maybe he was a huge nerd, and this jacket was like catnip to his big pussy face. Such was the risk of wearing a clothing item like this—it always ended up attracting “the wrong element.”

In truth, however, she was wearing it because, these days, it was one of the few things that covered up how paunch-y her stomach had become. From what she had been told by the many people who felt compelled to comment on her newly noticeable “Santa belly,” it was because she was getting older, and, thus, her metabolism was no longer working as diligently as it once did. She kept it to herself that she thought the more likely culprit was her sedentary lifestyle. And maybe a dash of all the blue light she was constantly absorbing from her phone and computer.

In any case, there wasn’t much she could do about it because she absolutely despised exercising. To her, it felt like an utter waste of perfectly good time during which she could be doing something much more useful. And the things she considered useful were related to strengthening the mind rather than the body. It was just a shame that such an immediate physical result had to occur as apparent “recompense” for favoring the cerebral over the corporeal. She also found it to be one of many gender injustices/inequities that, as a means to further highlight a woman’s fatness (specifically, belly fatness), someone could genuinely mistake her for being pregnant and therefore feel obliged to “congratulate” her on her “little bump” (to borrow an infamous phrase from a certain Blake Lively interview). Since, for whatever reason, people of all genders feel like it’s okay to comment on a woman’s body, regardless of whether they even know her or not.

At first, Flora was almost afraid this man might do something similar—comment on her body, even though it was covered. Because if you stare at someone long enough, and they notice, they’re usually bound to say something that will make it even more awkward. But he said nothing. He didn’t need to, because the glint in his eye made Flora understand that he was aroused by her in some way. Maybe she was now “fetish material” in her current rotund and “elder” state. And, topped off with the Alien jacket, who knew what types of niche fetishes she was tapping into for this man (apart from what she considered to be her blimp-like body)?

The second she re-recognized this feeling of what it meant to be ogled, she immediately wanted to go back to being invisible, at once understanding what a luxury it was despite thinking she had missed being noticed by men. As it turned out, she really didn’t. And, worse still, this man was being extremely unsubtle about taking a picture of Flora after he thought she was no longer looking back at him. He raised and angled his phone overtly in her direction. He was as obvious as a nuclear blast. And, in all honesty, she herself wanted to go nuclear on him for being such a disgusting prick.

Whatever the reason behind his photo snapping (that was about to make Flora herself snap)—whether it was genuine, unbridled lust or merely a dweeb-related kind—she was not going to stand for it. When she had been younger, she probably would have just “let it slide” while internally remaining vexed and disturbed by the notion that some creep she didn’t even know had captured her image for his own depraved purposes.

So she did “go nuclear,” rising up from her seat and demanding, “Delete that right now.” Her eerie calmness appeared to unnerve him more than her raised voice would have.

Still, he feigned innocence, replying, “Excuse me?” But the stammering, bumbling nature of the delivery was a dead giveaway that she had his number (no phone pun intended).

“You fucking heard me. Delete that. Right. Now. And then let me watch you delete it from your deleted photos, you sick piece of shit.”

The stunned fear in his eyes all at once faded into stoicism, as though he remembered he was a man and could do as he pleased. The effect of seeing him remember that power was chilling, and almost made Flora lose her resolve to exact what was right out of this uniquely twenty-first century situation. But she would not, could not. She owed it to her younger, constantly ogled self to now stand up for her current self.

When he continued to stare at her blankly, like the two were at a stalemate, Flora irritatedly snatched the phone out of his hand, held it in mid-air and pronounced, “If you don’t delete that fucking photo right now, I’m going to drop your phone on the ground and smash it. Do you understand?”

The man was rapt again, eager to oblige now that she had gotten his attention with the only language all men seemed to comprehend: threatening violence. He nodded slowly, extending his hand out to take the phone back. Reluctantly, she gave it to him, hoping the matter would be settled without further incident. But no, to her surprise (mainly because of how decrepit and out of shape he looked), he jumped from his seat and bolted toward the end of the train where the sliding door would allow him into the following car until, presumably, he waited for the next stop to make his escape with her photo still secured in his phone.

A part of her was almost “touched” by how committed he was to preserving her image—that is, if it weren’t entirely overruled by the part of her that was totally revolted by this breed of male behavior. A type of behavior that was in keeping with their inherent sense of entitlement to anything and everything they wanted. Which is the real reason why he was so “shocked” to be confronted by Flora about his conduct. Or, more to the point, misconduct.

Seeing him run away with the phone kicked Flora’s reflexes into high gear as she chased him in slow but hot pursuit (it’s not like her unwieldy belly wasn’t as much of a hindrance to her agility as this man’s age), trailing him into the next car where several onlookers watched their dust-up unfold. Flora pulled a Swiss army knife out of her jacket pocket (something she always carried with her as a holdover habit from the days when she was still “rape material”) and lobbed it at the back of his head with all her might. This achieved the desired effect of stopping him in his tracks long enough to regain access to the phone, snatching it from his hand again, slamming it to the ground and then stomping on it with her boot. As promised.

She was a woman who would not be deterred, and she didn’t care if there were consequences, if the man tried to involve “the authorities” or some bullshit. Flora knew she had done what needed to be done. That to have continued to just sit there complacently after he effectively “stole her image” would have been a disservice to that younger version of herself who had suffered so many similar injustices and “microaggressions” without so much as a peep in response to express how violated she felt. In short, she decided she was wise enough now to no longer tolerate such blatant encroachments.

Some might have told her that people usually “calm down” the older they get, but she knew the opposite was going to be true for her. As it should be for most women realizing that they’ve suffered fools for far too long. And that, after a certain point, they were “too old” for this shit. “This shit” being to tolerate any more male fuckery whatsoever.

Before the man could get his bearings for long enough to say or do something, Flora turned on her heel and scurried off the train, blessed, for once, with good timing so that she could make a clean getaway from his foul ass. In the future though, she would think twice about wearing that Alien jacket, presently convinced that it was a magnet for freak show men. Well, more freak show than usual.