I’m standing in the York Street station waiting for a train. Some distance away from me on the platform is a man and his two young daughters. He’s dressed in construction garb, and seems to be explaining something about his work to his daughters, who ask questions and laugh at his responses. There’s something that seems sweet about the whole scene, and for several minutes I find myself glancing over now and then, wondering what the man’s explaining, how often he sees his daughters, whether this situation is typical or not. Then I see the man looking at me. He’s wearing a mask (as am I), so I can’t read his expression; but I realize, after a moment, that he seems to have asked me a question and is awaiting my response. He repeats himself in a louder voice: ‘I saw you looking over here at my daughters.’ My first thought is, he’s proud of them, and wants me to acknowledge how charming or cute they are. I smile under my mask. But then I realize with a sinking feeling that his tone is one of hostility. ‘You like looking at my daughters? You looking at their asses? I seen you looking down like that.’ He’s shouting now. I can’t even begin to think how to respond to this accusation. Not wanting to admit defeat – or guilt – I stare at him shaking my head as he gets more and more worked up. I turn away, open my bag, and take out my book. Fortunately the platform is relatively empty, and the man’s attempts to publicly shame me, now repeating on loop, fall on mostly deaf ears. But they sting all the same.