Dear Jess,

I spend time thinking about the young man with the neck tattoos who I see often on the beach front. He’s short and stocky with brown hair and a kind face. I see him morning and afternoon, just walking. He looks at me in a knowing way, a way far too familiar for strangers. I wonder if he looks at other women this way. I’ve seen him walk passed my house as I’ve left for a run with the baby, as he walks in front of us he continuously turns back trying to make eye contact and get my attention. I know he wants to start a conversation so I deliberately avoid his eyes. I picture the news headlines about my disappearance or murder. The papers stating how he was such a nice young man and how, I, his victim was somehow at fault for smiling at him or wishing him good morning. Surely I should have known he was mentally ill. The way he was walking, morning, afternoon, evening. Always walking.

When I run I listen for footsteps behind me, I search the faces of the men sitting in their cars, smoking, watching. I wonder at their intentions. I constantly wonder at men’s intentions. I do it almost subconsciously, it’s second nature to me.

I put in headphones and blast music to try and block the thoughts and fears but they still creep in. I don’t remember a day without the fear of what a man could do to me; could take from me without my permission. It’s like a stone in your shoe that you’ve just learnt to live with, but it’s always there, grinding into your subconscious day and night.

Ahead a man walks towards Matilda and I as I run. I saw him for the first time yesterday. He has a nice car and an angry face. He wears black glasses and storms up and down the path. I smile at him and say good morning and he grunts at me, angry and stares straight ahead, he wants me to know he’s angry, but I’m not sure why. In seconds I am lost in a world where he brings a gun to the waterfront. My heart begins to race as I try to think of ways I could save my baby girl. The sound of the gun fire, the anger and violence of men. The all consuming, insatiable anger of men. Maybe if I smile at him more next time, say good morning in a more cheerful way, then maybe I can tell the story of how being nice saved mine and Tillys lives. In this world it pays to be nice to men.

I wonder if my daughter will have these thoughts and fears also? And if so will it be my fault or is it the nature of women to fear men? To always be questioning their intentions?

And just like that, the nice young man with the neck tattoos and silver chain necklace passes me. He wishes me good morning, asks me how I am as I pass him by and the thoughts once again, begin to run rampant in my mind.

Love Sally