It’s happened.  The final nail has been set.  The coffin encasing my ailing feminism has been sealed.  It was sexual harassment.  It was obvious, it was witnessed, and it was repeated.  And I didn’t.  Do.  A thing.

 The once open concept office, which had seemed so warm and inviting on my first tour of the space, had turned threatening and claustrophobic; everyone became an aggressor in that instant.

 Maybe it’s the result of many years of erosion.  The feminist in me wept in the corner of the bathroom when I resumed removing my body hair: first my armpits, then my legs.  She blubbered like a baby when I cohabited with a right-wing engineering student.  And she lost her voice entirely when I took the job at the investment firm (which shall remain nameless); “student loans be damned,” her eyes had said.  When I knew for certain I was attracted to men she shook her head in disappointment: heterosexuality was for the weak.

 And now today, I fear she’s stopped crying for good.  Defeated at last, ol’ girl?  Her shock was palpable as I sat stone-faced at my desk—no cries of outrage to be heard escaping my cowardly throat, only the pounding of hammer hitting nail.