Dear Philadelphia:

I have lived here now for nearly six years. I made it through four and a half without buying pepper spray, and only acquired one from a friend when a string of sexual assaults last fall were a little too close to home. It remains attached to my keychain, except for when it isn't: before shows at the Electric Factory or TLA, I make sure to detach it and leave it somewhere where I'll remember to put it back where it belongs. I seldom do, and I'll admit that I've gone for days at a time without my pepper spray in my purse. I've never once felt like I needed it.

Not until last night.

I was supposed to meet Editor Jim last night so we could catch the press screening of The Bank Job at The Ritz Five. My plan to get there was the same that it always is that time of the evening: walk the four blocks from 18th and Spring Garden to the Broad Street Line, change trains at City Hall, and walk to the theatre. I've done it dozens of times and I've always felt comfortable doing it.

I'm a really fast walker, and I was in a hurry to get to the subway. After I crossed 17th, I started gaining on a man. Blue coat, knit cap. Walking slowly, right down the center of the sidewalk in front of the Community College. He must have heard me coming up behind him, because he moved to the side. For a moment, I thought he was being polite, and then he looked at me over his shoulder, smirked, stepped out right in front of me and extended an arm, then spun around and—whether by coincidence or by design—cupped my right breast. I didn't know what to say. I pushed his arm away. "Don't&mdash" I shouted, hoping that the girl walking toward us would hear.

If she did, she kept walking anyway, staring at the sidewalk for good measure.

"Don't what?" the man asked. He was clearly enjoying this.

"Just— Stay away from me!" My god, it's only 6:15, where are all the people and will somebody hear me?

He took a few steps backward. "Stay away from me!" He was mocking me. "Is this far enough?"

Instinctively, I reached toward my pocket for my phone, but worried that I should keep both hands free in case I had to run. I started walking away, quickly. I hated to turn my back on him, but I didn't want to back away, either. That meant he'd be able to get a better look at me – maybe recognize me later. And so I walked, as quickly as I could without breaking into a run, which might provoke him further, and trying to simultaneously get my purse unzipped and retrieve my pepper spray. When I looked back, I saw him there, never closer than twenty feet from me, but still far too close for comfort. If he decided to run, he'd catch me easily. It felt like forever, but I was finally at the subway station. SEPTA was having a strangely reliable day, and the southbound Broad Street Line train pulled up to the platform as I walked down the stairs. I wasn't followed down, and I met up with an old friend with whom I felt safer.

I know that you're not the safest place there is, Philly. But I try to be smart about where I go and what I do and when. Like I've said, I've always felt safe around you. And I've tried to do my part, however small, to keep you safe: a few months ago near Rittenhouse, I saw a shirtless man in a wheelchair roll up to the driver's side door of a woman's car, just as she was parking. As she began to open the door, he yanked it, and with surprisingly strength, tried to pull her from her car. "I'm calling the police!" I shouted, my finger already dialing 911. The guy seemed scared and took off, but I still made sure to report what I'd seen when the dispatcher entered.

This being the City of Brotherly Love and all, I'd hoped that if something bad even looked like it was happening to me, someone else nearby would pay me the same courtesy I would pay them and dial 911, even if it was a false alarm. But last night, it didn't happen.

I don't know what makes me feel more violated, Philly: the fact that a random man cupped my breast last night and then followed me for three blocks, or the fact that a woman passing by didn't even try to stop it. Last night, oh city of mine, my little security bubble popped. Sure, I'll probably form another, and soon – but it will never be as strong or as comforting as the original. And that may be the worst part of it all.

Photo of a ridiculously cute Old English Sheepdog puppy, because I couldn't find a relevant picture and decided to go with something that would make me happy instead, via Flickr user ehecatzin.