Eh shifty guy on the bus: the first time your hand brushed against my leg, I assumed it was an accident. The second time, I scooted over but didn’t say anything. The third time—done blatantly as I was getting off—I asked you to stop and you flew off the handle, following me onto the street and calling me a “liar” and “bitch” and some other words I won’t repeat. Lucky for you I wasn’t carrying the can of pepper spray my boyfriend gave me; I assumed on Maui I wouldn’t have to worry about creeps invading my space. It’s in my purse now.