I realized I went in the wrong door as you stood on the other side, huffing, puffing, stomping your feet.
You looked at me with disdain.
Like I was wasting your time.
As I was trapped in that revolving glass box, I realized that I was in your way.
I had accidentally entered the exit, causing you a moment of delay.
You, with your hands much larger than mine and your presence much bigger than mine, grabbed the door from my hands with a force that pushed me into the store moments earlier than I’d expected.
I stumbled a little.
I mouthed I was sorry.
You grumbled and shoved passed me.
I’d like to apologize that I was in your way.
I’d like to apologize that I entered the exit.
I’d like to apologize that I made you wait.
I’d like to apologize that your body is full of anger.
Palpable, real, all encompassing anger.
I’d like to apologize that I can’t help but think that you think I did that on purpose—made you wait, inconvenienced you, looked past you.
It seems you looked at my blonde hair and blue eyes and assumed I made you wait on purpose.
You are not invisible to me.
I am not better than you.
We were both shopping on a Monday, in the mid afternoon, on the Magnificent Mile. For that, we are the same.
I accidentally went through the wrong door.
I made a mistake.
I am sorry.