Discomfort.
When they look your way.
Drunkenly elbowing each other pointing at you, whistling saying
"alright there lovely?" and then forgetting your existence and going back to smoking illegally behind their chosen dingy alley.
But there are those who don't forget.
The ones that stalk you.
The taxi drivers who remain seated in their car waiting for you to get inside, noting down the street name and the house number.
The ones that are still there when you twitch the curtains in the living room.
That is the discomfort of being a woman and the discomfort of knowing it is normalised is greater still.