Uchay Writes

Over the course of my 22 years of life – especially before the age of 18- I have had many creepy encounters with men. I have written some of them in drabble form.

For those who don’t know, a drabble is a 100-word story.

Content Warning: Harassment

He looked 40

I should’ve kept my uniform on. A bodycon in this June heat was a bad choice. I looked at the patch forming under my arm. I had to deliver Mum’s flash drive to work: Marner Children’s Centre. I looked down at the group chat. Bantering instead of revising, the usual. “You alright darling? What’s your number?” I looked up. His eyes were slightly sunken and his attire: A black coat with beaten joggers and a beanie. A proper dodgy bloke. I shook my head. “Oh, have a good one miss”. I quickened my pace. The sweat patch had gotten bigger.

“Your loss”

9pm, it was time to go. I slurped the remainder of my McDonald’s vanilla milkshake and weaved through the masses in Stratford Westfield and briskly walked over the bridge. The day was over but the bright lights and buzz of people forced life into the darkness of this average Tuesday. I had just reached the stairs and descended when – “Yo I saw you walk past and thought you looked beautiful”. I skipped a couple of steps and headed for the bus station. More pestering: “What’s your number? Wanna go out?”. With one final no, he shrugged and said “your loss”.

The Poundland Prowler

I needed pads and batteries. Stratford centre on a Saturday afternoon was always a warzone. I squeezed my way through the centre’s entrance, zooming past slow walkers and stationary people by market stalls to get to Poundland. I entered. I saw the long queues and smelt the body odour. I walked down the first isle, dodging baskets and people. I stopped, turned and looked at the accessories. I felt a brush behind me. Too high to be a child, too low to be an accident. He was already far ahead but he looked at me and smirked. Fat and bald.

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