VERY Short Romantic Story: Morning Commute

Morning Commute

The police officer couldn’t hold my attention.  I didn’t know who the man was and something in me desperately needed to know that.  He had saved me from being mugged and possibly worse just a few yards from the bench I waited on every single morning while listening to Adele or Maroon 5 on my iPod.  Everything going along the same until one day it isn’t the same at all and your world flips end over end. 

I needed to talk to him.  Know his name.  Know him.

I saw his leather jacket disappearing up the exit and knew I couldn’t let him out of my sight.  Ignoring the shouts behind me to wait, running with everything I had through the subway terminal, up the stairs, onto the street, and still I lost him.  My head hurt as I looked around frantically. 

“Please…I need to talk to you,” I whispered to myself.  A tingling on the back of my neck had me turning.  A fierce hope I didn’t understand slammed into my chest as dark eyes, almost black, stared back at me from the bagel shop a few feet away.  He was fit and masculine without being too pretty.  With a small smile, he held up two coffees in takeout cups.  “I thought you could use some caffeine while you finished talking to the police.”

“Yes.”  Both of us heard the relief in my voice.  “Thank you.”

He inclined his head and I thought the gesture elegant.  Something about him called to me.  Made me think about things I’d never considered.  Sharing a home, a life, with another human being.  It was amazing and terrifying.  He’d think I was crazy.

We walked together into the terminal, our shoulders occasionally touching.  He handed me his card.  Malcolm Z’Ander, Stock Broker.  I gave him mine.  Abigail Wills, Web Designer.  Our cell phone numbers were listed.

As we approached the officers, he said quietly, “I never take this train, Abigail.  I never notice other commuters.  I left my apartment over an hour later than usual.”

I stopped walking and turned to face him.  “I’m glad you were here today.”

Reaching out, he lightly traced a long, square-tipped finger over the bruise forming on my temple.  “As am I.”  Our eyes met and locked.  “My grandmother would call this destiny.  Do you believe in destiny, Abigail?”

I took a deep breath and smiled, “I do now.”