cross steps, Women who walk alone at night.

It’s 4 O’Clock in the morning as I leave my friend Diane’s apartment.

The door closes behind me and I can hear the music still echoing behind the door. The blueish sunlight is bleeding through, as I close it with a bang and I know the sound won’t disturb the revellers behind. They have already forgotten about me in the blurry haze of a drunken evening, vodka and strangeness. I should be sensitive with my steps on the hallway carpet, but my platform boots make no dent into the reddened carpet beneath me. The staircase is a spiral which adds to my dizziness, and I run fast. My feet are more desperate to leave the apartment than my mind can associate. Before too long I am already on the street. It’s morning in Paris and I’ve had a forgettable night. Not for any reason, but I know in the morning that with the onset of cheap wine and late night conversations, my mind would be too overwhelmed to remember anything with strong significance. Except the love I have for Diane and the comfort of her sofa.

When I’m alone with my friends in our apartments I feel safe, I feel comforted. When we go out together we often check on each-other. Club nights are speckled with concerns ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Is that boy bothering you?’ ‘How are you getting home’ and always, always with the late-night furrowed brow and squeezing of the hand that reveals ‘Text me when you are getting home’. It’s an ominous reminder that as women, we are never truly safe. The camaraderie that comes with a shared concern reveals itself in these moments. Going out at night is a shared responsibility for one another. This concern is reflected in a glance of the eye, from across the dance floor from friend to friend. Can we ever truly relax into late night spaces? Is danger for women and non-binary brothers, sisters and siblings always looming around the corner? Can we twirl and spin on the dance floor in complete solace of enjoyment while knowing one step could take us away from our friends and sometimes our lives. Whilst the temptation of being carefree under the disco lights is tempting, would it be irresponsible?

As I walk home in the morning light, not late enough to be classified as evening but still early enough for the only sound on the cobble stone streets to be my pleather heeled boots. I’m brutally aware of the echos of my shoes that ricochet off of the historical Hausmenn buildings that surround me. I’m drunk, so naturally I stumble and I am aware enough to understand the perceived danger I’m in. A man stumbles out of a nearby bar and follows me, I busy myself with my phone with an assertive ‘NO!’ he retreats as fast as he appeared. I’ve dodged one situation, and I wonder how many more I will have on the 15 minute walk home.

There is an Amyl and the Sniffers song called ‘Knifey’ and the lyrics are:

All I ever wanted was to walk by the park
All I ever wanted was to walk by the river, see the stars
Please, stop fucking me up

In Melbourne in 2019, I have a distinct memory of leaving a local queer karaoke bar with my friend Joal. Normally, when I leave a venue late at night I instinctively take an Uber home. This is a reflex I’ve developed in my adulthood, an innate awareness that for ‘Women like me, the streets aren’t safe’. It’s not even a conscious decision, it’s an internal ticker that has been developed through cycles of news reports of late-night violence against women. In this safety measure, one can’t help but desire a life of freedom outside of these constraints. Joal wanted to take the tram home. ‘Take the tram? And Walk!?’ What a thought. I would never have dared to conceptualize before. I followed behind Joal as he stepped onto the illuminated platform. He was blissfully unaware of my reservations, which remained for the trip home. I looked at him as he mindlessly tapped the side of the window. So confident, so relaxed… so.. normal. As we got off the tram he strode ahead of me. He didn’t even look to his sides, he didn’t check the alley-ways we passed. He wasn’t scared of the shadows. I was scared of the shadows.

In Amyl’s song, Amy the lead singer sings about the feminine yearning of a life lived without the fear of danger. She sings about how she wishes she could see the park at night, how she could walk in the city without fear. I related to her anger and her frustration. In Joal, I saw what life could be like if we did not live with the constant fear of an anonymous stranger materializing and ripping our joy from us. Is this a reality that would be possible for me in my lifetime? I can’t say for now, but I was grateful to taste the sweet moment of freedom and bliss derived from Joal’s nonchalance.

I think of this as I dodge the uneven ground beneath me. The sun is rising and I open my front door. With a sigh of relief, I have arrived home safe and without interruption. I take my boots off and I sit on the floor. I text Diane ‘Yes, I got home safe’.