A New Pair of Shoes

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The Intruder

As most young women have done, I’ve given a considerable amount of thought to what would happen should an intruder come into my bedroom in the middle of the night. In reality, it’s just a matter of when.

My first floor boudoir practically begs for a horny meth-head in search of jewels to tiptoe his way in while I slumber. He’d have his pick of entrances, that’s for sure. If he was feeling lazy he could just stroll in through my sliding glass door. A more confident intruder might simply crawl through the window directly above my bed. If he had time to kill (in addition to me), he could choose to come in through the living room patio while I’m at work and lay in wait inside my walk-in closet until I drift off. The buffet of entry points is almost too much for a single rapist to consume.

Inevitably, on the night my window entices an unwelcome intruder, my husband will be traveling for work. He'll have packed up his bag that morning, and kissed me adoringly on his way out the door, naively unaware of what fate had in store for me.

I can only hope that the day an intruder decides to sneak into my bedroom is the same day I conjure up the motivation to remove all the books from my shelves and reorganize them by color. Halfway through I’d of course abandon the effort, grab a bottle of wine and watch West Wing in bed, leaving stacks of color-coded books strewn about my floor. Eventually I'll doze off, lulled to sleep by the pinot noir and the rhythmic pitter-patter of Sorkin banter.

With any luck, the intruder will be distracted by my snoring and kick over a pile of hardcovers that I’ve lied about reading, scattering them loudly and alerting me of his arrival. This is where things get interesting.

Best case scenario, I am silently startled awake, but so frozen with fear that the intruder (shall we call him Earl?) doesn’t see me move at all. My horrible reality zooms into focus as I lay still, wide-eyed in the dark. Earl is frozen into a human statue on the other side of the room, trying to determine if he's just blown his cover.

Eventually my lack of motion will assure him that he’s in the clear. But as Earl carefully maneuvers his way through the booby trap library, I’ll be ever so slowly sliding my arm under the blankets toward the nightstand where I keep my hatchet.

Inch by inch, Earl slinks closer as my fingers creep toward the weapon. Meanwhile I’m mentally retracing my steps through every wrong decision that has led me to this very moment. I see myself breezing past the dog adoption on 6th avenue, pausing only long enough to lock eyes with an adorable german shepherd puppy before muttering something about our schedule not allowing for the responsibility. I pictured myself texting my sister through my company’s mandatory self-defense training. Barely putting down my phone for the mock-attack, I volunteered to be the assailant instead of the victim because it seemed easier. I thought about the brunch where I slammed my hands on the table, excitedly telling my friends about the adorable new walk-up we'd found in an enviously trendy neighborhood where you ran the risk of getting stabbed after dark, but the adorable boutiques and abundance of delicious Indian food made it worth the gamble. They nodded approvingly over their $15 eggs benedict.

I would naturally wonder about Earl during these tense moments. Was he nervous? Had he done this before? Was he seeing anyone special? After he hacked my body to bits (possibly with my own hatchet) he would undoubtedly pillage my valuables and make off with quite a bounty. My laptop, my jewlery, those expensive kitchen appliances I begged for and have never used. I pictured his girlfriend wearing my Nana’s pearls while executing a lazy lap dance at her place of employment. 

Finally my fingers would reach the edge of the mattress. The moment of truth. I’d only have one chance to plunge my hand under the bed, grabbing wildly for my weapon before Earl realized what was happening. 

I’d spring up, swinging my axe ferociously, ideally making contact on the first strike and hopefully not getting too much blood on my duvet. As Earl crumples to the ground, scattering my well-curated stack of hunter green paperbacks, I stare at him for a moment, breathless, before reaching for my phone. As my fingers shakily dial 911, I make a mental note to lock the window tomorrow night.