What Your Name?

On my way out of the train station last night, a man spoke to me on the escalator.

"Nice day today, huh?" He inched up to my stair.
"Hot," I replied.
"Yes, hot!" He stared at me intensely with his huge brown eyes. "What your name?"
I've never realized it before, but it is very intimate to give your name to a stranger in a public place. I was sort of stunned by the question and hesitated in answering.
"Anna." I didn't want to ask his name. I didn't care. I was tired and wanted to be left alone. Plus, he stared too hard.

When we got to the top of the escalator, I picked up my pace in hopes of ending the conversation.

"Have a good night," he said. I considered the degree to which this warranted a response. Why was I guarded? Am I so attached to American ideas on personal space and conversational niceties?
"You too," I conceded.

I was pushing myself, and I surprised us both. The man, who had finally started in a different direction, turned back toward me and followed me to my exit from the station. Suddenly I was buried in my paranoia. Had he read my response as in invitation? A submission? Did he think he was supposed to continue walking with me now? I contemplated my route home. I had to lose him, but I didn't have the energy to say anything else. I crossed the street, even though I didn't need to, and I checked back every few steps to show that I didn't want to be followed. I called my boyfriend to see if he could meet me halfway on the walk. By the time I got home, I was nearly running. But in the end, there was nobody behind me, and I knew it.