Talking to a Stranger

A couple of years ago, I was walking down the stairs of the Regent Theatre in Collins St after seeing a very intense film (during the film festival). A man suddenly appeared at my left. He began talking to/at me:

Man: “Have you just seen Bug?”

There’s an urgency in his voice and I jump a little. I’m also still reeling from the intensity of the film (no pun intended – film reel, get it!). I decide against making eye contact with the man, for the moment.

Nicole: “Yes” (no, I just like walking up and down the Regent Theatre stairs).

Man: “How many films have you seen at the festival?”

Nicole: “Just this one, so far.”

Man: “You certainly picked a good one.”

I certainly did. I decide I need to look at this man…

…he has 5 heads and tentacles instead of arms!…no, wait, that’s a different story…

…he has 1 head and 2 human arms. He doesn't look evil. He's maybe late thirties to early forties, medium build, a bit taller than me. I decide I could take him if things get violent. I’m pretty sure they won't.

Man: “I saw three films today and seven over the weekend.”

I’m impressed. This guy’s crazy – good crazy, maybe. He continues talking. I get the impression he doesn’t want to allow any gaps into the conversation. We walk up Collins St, avoiding numerous pavement repairs. The man seems intelligent and knowledgeable about film. And polite, despite an insistency over the continuation of our conversation. It's possible I don’t mind talking to him. I raise my conversation level.

My mind is working hard, though. It’s past 11 on a Tuesday night, the film crowd has dispersed, and I’m virtually alone with a man I don’t know, enmeshed in a conversation with no gaps. I've just seen a claustrophobic film about disturbed, paranoid people. I’m not completely at ease. I’m beginning to think I might feel more at ease alone in my car, which I’ve sensibly parked in the most deserted part of town. I wonder if the man will follow me to my car. I don’t know if he wants more from me than just conversation. Maybe he wants a lift home, maybe he wants sex, maybe he wants to dance beneath a full moon draped in my internal organs. I suspect that he is single. I think he’s looking for love. I think he’s hoping to find love with me.

But love is not something I can offer at 11pm on a Tuesday night, in the middle of Collins St, to a stranger. Nor is it something that can be extracted from me against my will - being in public, whilst simultaneously being female and alone, isn't licence to 'cold' approach a lone lady.

Now I’m uncomfortable. I need to turn left into Exhibition St. If I don’t turn soon, I might not be able to find my car. We cross Exhibition St. He’s still talking. I stop walking. He walks a few paces ahead then stops and turns around. He looks at me with some sadness.

I say: “I have to go this way," (I also point), "it’s been nice talking to you”, (and it was, mostly, but it was not a conversation I had sought out, but rather one which was imposed upon me).

His look of sadness seems to intensify, maybe a hint of bitterness creeps in. I walk away quickly. When I’m about halfway down the block I turn around to make sure he hasn’t followed me. He hasn’t.

I believe the majority of men on this planet are decent and I don't like to interact with them in ways that would suggest anything less. But on this occasion, I’m a 5-ft 4-inch, medium build, unarmed woman (who likes to pretend she has slayer-strength but knows she actually doesn't), walking alone late at night, through a deserted city. I need to be cautious.

A few days later I’m in town again to see another film. I search the crowd. I can’t find him.

If I find him I will tell him why I had to walk away. I will have a proper conversation with him, full of gaps. I sometimes wonder if he is in the crowd but is hiding from me. I don’t know. He struck me as someone who might watch Buffy. He might also be someone who watches violent and degrading pornography. It’s difficult to tell from one conversation.