I had almost forgotten how grim it is for a middle aged man to look you up and down and leer right in your face in broad, sunny daylight.

It doesn't make me feel as unsafe as rowdy drunken teenagers catcalling in the dark, or being cornered with my girlfriend on the highstreet by slurring men on their stag do, or being spat at in the street on holiday for a t-shirt bearing my sexuality.

It makes me uneasy in a different way. It makes me second guess people's eyes on me, the bus driver smiling. It reminds me that it doesn't take anything for a stranger to see me as an object. It doesn't take alcohol or cover of darkness. It's not something that happens only in certain places or far away. Here and now there are people who do not see me as a person, do not see me as an equal.

Person A’s mom just got her hours cut back from work, so they have to take another job in addition to their coffee/souvenirs gift shop job. The only other place in town to make good money is a biker bar which is a rival competitor (for some reason). So Person A goes and works at the bar at night right after their shift at the coffee place ends and has to do a complete wardrobe change from pastels to black. Every. Single. Day.

This bar is also where they meet Person B, a biker rider, leather wearer, and maybe even a little tattoo getter. They gain crushes on each other, but everyone in the bar always rips on the coffee place down the road for how cutsie it always looks. Person A never wants to express their feelings because they think Person B would look down on them for working at both places.