Why are you walking so close to me? It’s just you, and me, and this vast stretch of lonely sidewalk that empties into the horizon. I have my dance space, you have your dance space, and yet you’re always all up in my dance space, Boston. What it is with you? You are walking faster than me, it’s true, but there’s plenty of room for you to pass me. Six feet or more in which to pass. The width of a small football field in which to pass.
And yet, here you are again, half a foot behind me. I cannot see you, though I can feel your hot breath on the back of my neck. Common sense tells me that no one walks this close, in my blind spot, on a virtually empty sidewalk, unless he or she is about to take my purse. But when I stop and turn to the side, forcing you to pass, it startles you. It turns out you were just plodding along, innocently, mere inches from my spine.
I know you don’t mean any harm, and you seem like such a nice city, and you obviously have no designs on my purse, but please stop it. You’re creeping me out.