A middle-aged gentleman followed me from the BART station to work today. He walked several steps behind me, saying a few words like “bellesimo” and coughing here and then. I considered what normal people would do. They would go in the closest store and tell the man off. But I didn’t really.

I remember during my sophomore year in college, my roommate freaked out when someone followed her home. I brazenly went downstairs and told him to go away. Then I called the police, because my roommate was upset.

But people know me. I am not good at sensing when I am in a dangerous situation like that. And besides, it was sunny in the Mission. Couples and hipsters walked past me without noticing something amiss. Just two people who seemed to be coincidentially on the same path taking a walk. At the corner of 20th, I stopped at a mailbox to mail an envelope. He stopped. “Are you following me?” I asked a bit accusingly.

He grunted.

I rolled my eyes as I turned away, continuing on my hike up a San Francisco hill. Finally, it dawned on me how it really could be dangerous. Perhaps, he wanted to know where I lived (maybe my belief that I wasn’t going home decreased my paranonia). But would he have a sick side? Then I thought about how I could walk all around San Francisco, walking and walking, having him follow. What if I could wear him down, a game? Or what if I sprinted? But then, my common sense came back as I saw a police car parked at the corner of an upcoming street.

I turned around suddenly and said, “You can stop following me.” I gestured toward the pair of cops sitting in their car.