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A middle-aged man walked across the road, pausing to glower steadily at the big, shining car - mine - that had come to a reluctant halt when he stepped off the curb. He was heavy-set, dignified, his skin nut-brown, his head shaved smooth. The gray shadow of hair over brown scalp, I remember that, the way even that shadow was smooth and reflected the sunshine, and the same shadow on his upper lip and chin, not stubbled, just shadowed with the memory of hair. Because of the bunched skin between his eyebrows, he looked angry, yes, and also because the nostrils of his flat nose were flared, and because his dark eyes were so deep-set and the whites of them so white, like he was crazy, and because his mouth was wide and the corners were down-turned. It was odd, you know, to see such an angry face over the stark edges of his white collar, over his black sweatervest, his beige slacks, his polished black shoes that had no laces or buttons that I could see. He was holding a styrofoam cup of coffee out in front of him, stiffly, but not like a man unused to holding coffee. At least, I didn't think he held it like a man unused to holding coffee. There was no reason for it, that was just my first thought, seeing his square right hand wrapped around styrofoam.

He didn't look at all like my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Pierce. That was enough to make me roll down my window and shout, "What's your name?"

He turned his smooth egg-shaped head away, stoic in the face of God's punishments: some crazy girl yelling for introductions, whatever had carved those lines in the polished wood of his face, the heat of his coffee soaking through styrofoam into his hand, maybe. He limped a little, could have been a new shoe hurting his heel, could have been an old war wound, could have been anything, but he moved quickly. Away from me.

"Hey," I tried. "I don't have anywhere to be, do you need a lift? I can give you a lift."

He reached the other side of the road and the light turned green. I hit the gas but I saw in the corner of the rearview mirror as his shoulders slumped a little with relief, crazy girl gone, and that was probably what made me turn the corner and drive after him, not honking even though my thumb was twitching towards the button, because I was afraid, idiotically, that the sound would make him outrun me.

Only you would post four paragraphs of a story D: temptress!

I like her already. XD MAKE MORE.

PS, I considered nominating this for the may spotlight, but then I stopped, because you're a mod now razz non-staff people get preference. And besides...four paragraphs long. from a novel. You have got to be kidding me.

I'm loving this, actually.

I don't have anything else to say about it though. gonk