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Meeting his gaze, I flip him off with my free hand and keep doing it to make sure he sees it in the rear-view mirror.
As soon as the van disappears around the corner, I start trembling again. The brief wave of adrenaline that hit me when I was being insulted withers away, and now all I can think about is that I could’ve died.
That Ireallywould’ve let my little girl down.
“Are you all right?”
I whirl around at the sound of the accented voice. For a second, I forgot that someone had pulled me out of that van’s path. That if they hadn’t, I would be dead right now.
The man, who’s Russian, judging by the subtle accent he just spoke with, stands in front of me, his hand still gripping my elbow. It’s a gentle touch compared to the brute force he used to pull me back.
He’s tall, and while most people are taller than my five-foot-four, he goes way beyond that. Probably six-two or more. He’s wearing a black shirt and pants with an open dark gray cashmere coat. It could be the colors, or the length of the coat, which reaches his knees, but he looks elegant, smart, in a lawyer sort of way, and probably worked as a model to pay his college tuition.
His face tells a different story, however. Not that he’s not handsome, because he is, with sharp, angular features that fit his model body. He has high cheekbones that cast a shadow on his thick-stubbled jaw.
His eyes are an intense shade of gray that’s bordering on black. The color of his clothes could be intensifying their appearance, though. The fact remains that they’re too…uncomfortable to look at. You know when something or someone is so beautiful it actually aches inside to look at them? That’s this stranger. Peering into his eyes, however bizarre they are, hits me with a feeling of inferiority that I can’t shake off.
Although his words conveyed concern, I see none written in his facial expression. No empathy that most people are capable of.
But at the same time, he doesn’t seem like the type who’d feign worry. If anything, he’d be like the rest of the passers-by who barely looked in the direction of the near-traffic accident.
I should be feeling grateful, but the only thing I want is to escape from his clutches and his uneasy eyes. His deep, imploring eyes that are decrypting my face, little by little.
Piece by each tiny piece.
“I’m okay,” I manage, twisting my elbow free.
His brow furrows, but it’s brief, almost unnoticeable, before he goes back to his previous expression, letting me go as gently as he was gripping me. I expect him to turn around and leave so that I can chalk up the entire experience to an unlucky winter afternoon.
But he just stands there, unmoving, unblinking, not making one single step in any direction. Instead, he chooses to watch me, his thick brows drawing over his eyes that Ireallydon’t want to be staring into, but I find myself dragged into their savage gray anyway.
They’re like the harshness of the clouds above and the merciless gust of the wind from every direction. I can pretend they don’t exist, but they still make me lose the feeling of my limbs. They give me blisters and pain.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks again, and for some reason, it feels like he wants me to tell him I’m not.
But why? And to what end?
I’m just one of thousands of homeless people in this city. A man like him, who’s surrounded by an impenetrable air of confidence, hinting that he’s in some prominent position, shouldn’t have even looked in my direction.
But he did.
And now, he’s asking if I’m okay. Being used to invisibility makes me feel fidgety when I’m suddenly visible.
Ever since this Russian stranger gripped me by the arm, there’s been an itch under my skin, urging me to jump back to the shadows.
Now.
“Yeah,” I blurt. “Thank you.”
I’m about to turn and leave when the authority in his voice stops me. “Wait.”
My big shoes make a squeaky sound on the concrete when I follow his command. I normally wouldn’t. I’m not good at listening to orders, which is why I’m in this state.
But something in his tone gets my attention.
He reaches into his coat and two scenarios burst through my head. The first is that he’ll pull out a gun and shoot me in the head for disrespecting him. The second is that he’ll treat me like many others and give me money.
That sense of inferiority hits again. While I usually accept change from people to buy my beer, I don’t beg for it. The idea of taking this stranger’s money makes me feel dirty, less than invisible and more like a speck of dust on his black leather shoes.
