Then both antagonists come into view — not two big men

One big big man and . . . one who's not a man

A woman, tiny, skinny, pallid, arms folded tight across her breasts

long lank hair, bleached-out blonde — unmussed, hangs straight

no blood or bruises to be seen

despite the frantic, loud-voiced strife

Still shouting scorn, still gesturing

he strides away across the empty street.

She pauses there, then — pleading maybe? maybe not? —

hand outstretched

swift pursues the angry man

who spins again, spits out his question

What, you want to fuck me NOW?

He shoves her hard

She cringes, stumbles sideways

stays upright there as he stomps off

across the street and down into the facing lane

Are you okay? I ask her

(that constant Covid query, a different context now)

we face each other, move each toward other

both moving on the quiet pale grey sidewalk there

She looks at me, says what, so I repeat

Are you . . . okay?

(slower this time, pandemic-scented pause before okay)

Yes, I'm . . . okay. Thanks.

She looks distressed, intact

sad but not shocked, in control

The fear she shows, a certain kind of fear —

a pleading maybe? or fending off? —

now is aimed at me.

***

Part 3 of "Young man's fancy" follows