The man outside the convenience store

He sticks his cup out in front of each person entering the store.

"Spare change?" he asks.

"Help me buy some food," he requests.

"Help a guy out in the name of Jesus Christ," he says.

He holds the door open as strangers enter. They avoid eye contact, occasionally murmuring their thanks in his direction or shaking their heads.

When I approach the door, he shakes his cup and repeats his line about Jesus.

"I don't have any cash," I say as I reach for the door. It's true. I don't have any cash. I don't even have a coat.

He opens the door for me and says something quiet enough that I can't hear him over the music playing through my earbuds.

As I walk through the store surveying the snacks and preparing the hot chocolate I came in for, he comes in and out, repeating similar exchanges with other customers until the cashier confronts him about it. He goes back outside.

The cashier's eyes dart back to the door twice as I check out. I slide my credit card back into my pocket and grab a hot chocolate in each hand, one for me and one for my friend, patiently watching the rest of my belongings at the library around the corner.

Exiting the convenience store, he switches his focus back to me. This time, he blocks the exit, extending his arm fully outward in front of me with his cup.

"I don't have any cash," I repeat myself. I really don't. I rarely ever do.

"That's okay baby," he says. He moves his arm, and I start walking.

"Next time you can give me. . ." I do my best to tune him out. I can hear him commenting on my body behind me, calling me pet names, continuing to shout after me regardless of my lack of engagement.

"Shut up," I respond firmly, but without much inflection in my voice. I sound dismissive, or so I hope. I don't turn around as I say it. I just keep walking.

I cross the street the second the walk sign appears, and I try to maintain a steady pace. I don't want it to be visible that he irritated me. I must appear unbothered, and confident, dismissive, but not threatened. I do not look back until I'm around the corner, closer to the library and out of sight from the convenience store entrance.

I balance one cup atop the other to adjust my earbuds, and I wonder how many times I have lived this exact scenario now. At 25 years old, I do not think I could count. I am prepared for exactly this type of interaction every time I leave my apartment. I have been for years.

I enter the library and pass my friend one of the cups.

"I got harassed getting this hot chocolate," I say, laughing it off as the words come out of my mouth.

They look at me quizzically for a moment, but it turns to a knowing nod the second I mention the guy outside the convenience store.

I sit back down, take a sip of hot chocolate, and return to the notebook that had been in front of me before this excursion.

I turn the page to a fresh one, still thinking of all the times this has happened and how few of them I can fully remember. There was the middle-aged man who told me I should teach his wife how to dress when I was just 19. There was the drunk man who tried to grab at my arm when I walked home from a light-night desk assistant shift.

I decide I will remember this one too.