I leaned down, looked into his car, and asked, “Did you just call me ‘a b/tch’?”
“Yes, yes I did,” he replied.
My eight year old was loosely holding my hand. “Ok. I am just wondering why,” I said.
“Because you gave me a dirty look when you were crossing the street,” he answered.
“I just want to let you know that if it seemed I was giving you a dirty look, I was not. I was just trying to assess the situation. I heard you having words with the driver of that vehicle,” I said gesturing uphill to the extra large black SUV at the traffic light, “and I was concerned. I was the car coming up the hill oddly. I was trying to figure out what was going on.”
“Oh. Oh, I am so sorry,” he said. “That guy was racing up to the light. He saw me with my fob, and he would not wait. I am so sorry. You just never know in this town…how people people act.”
“Apology accepted. It’s ok. It’s fine. I just wanted to let you know, I wasn’t giving you a dirty look,” I said. Beren began to tug at my hand. “I am glad we had this conversation and can both go home feeling ok.”
“I am so sorry. You can probably tell I am gay, and I did not mean anything by my words [b/tch],” he added.
“I am not worried about words. I go zero to sixty and get worked up, too. Most of us do,” I said.
“I need to work on my anger. I am just so stressed out about school and everything. I am so sorry.”
Without Beren tugging on my hand, the conversation probably would have continued until his meter ran out.
It’s ok. It’s really ok.