Twenty-eight. It makes me nervous when people walk behind me on my way to work. Their footsteps sound a lot closer when my hands are in my pockets and my eyes are trained at the ground. I’m a little too stupid and unimportant to honestly believe that someone wants to shank me for my Go-Gurt. Several scenarios run through my brain – most of them involving me having to disguise my identity because I’m too famous to casually walk around in broad daylight.
To my left, a college girl is slowly pedaling a Schwinn while her boyfriend walks beside her, hand-in-hand. Part of me wishes he would sneeze. One so violent that his instincts force him to cover his mouth – pulling his hand away in a fashion that startles his lover, causing her to steer uncontrollably into a parking meter. Exploding nickels and the laughter of passersby muffle the faint sound of her bike bell.
To my right, an empty store. My reflection makes me look taller than I am.
Straight ahead only ground.
Still, I’m sure that I’m being followed. My ears are my eyes. I would look back to confirm, but I’m afraid nothing is there. Nothing keeps me moving forward. Nothing prevents me from looking up.
