7:30 on a September weeknight inside Schnucks grocery store.

She wore a red SEMO Redhawks sweatshirt, black tights, and her hair pulled up in a tight bun. Her purse hung across her body, and her left hand clamped down on the strap while her right pushed the cart. I smiled and nodded. Her eyes went to the end of the aisle.

She was scared.

Of me.

My first thought: Wow. Rude.

Then I remembered. One in four women has been raped or nearly raped. She doesn’t know me. She knows the odds.

It’s not my experience. I don’t understand it. I never will.

But I know the odds too. Her hands told me more than words could. Maybe she’s the one in four. Maybe she just knows one.

So I gave her space. At the register, I picked up a tabloid swearing a woman had been abducted by aliens. I had no plans to buy it, but it bought me a few minutes. I didn’t walk outside until I saw her backup lights.