Once, as I waited for my husband, Bruce, outside the door of a Trader Joe’s in Manhattan, a blond-haired man walked up and stood uncomfortably close to me, definitely well within my personal space. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue—collar turned up, arms of a cashmere sweater wrapped around his shoulders, khaki pants, loafers, no socks. He lit up a cigarette, then turned so he was mere inches from my face. He smiled and blew smoke straight at me. I edged away, moving to the other side of the door.
