You can imagine the "atmosphere" in my car, with most of the riders having one arm up as they clung to the ceiling straps
. Suddenly, my seat choice--a boon on most days--turned into a bust, as I struggled to make my way toward the exit and a much-needed breath of flesh air.
then I didn't start to scream, I didn't get away, I didn't even unhook my hands from the ceiling straps
, I let him do it, I responded to the violence with a stillness filled with fright and then made more complete because beyond that threshold there was something untestifiable, a tale that could never end up on the pages of Cioe, something I could never tell my friends or fit in to my parents' emancipated worldview, something mine and mine alone, the only freedom that the monstrously free world in which I was born could not tear away from me.