I sat in my apartment, that day, curled up on my sofa, knees tucked under my chin. I traced the edge of the couch with my fingers, trying not to think too much about what had happened.
Had I almost died?
Surely not. . . But, why else had Gary been there? Why did he grab me like that, holding me close, shivering in fright? Why was he there, on that street? Why wasn't he taking care of his paper?
He thought that I didn't notice that something was wrong. How could I not notice? I noticed, so much! Fear reeked off him like cologne. He was scared. He was hurt, he was angry. He was relieved. I can't understand it.
As he lead me away, away from that street, shivers still raced through his body. It was as if he had just gotten to me in the nick of time. We went for breakfast, a typical, All-American type breakfast. Greasy eggs and bacon, orange juice, coffee, and toast. He didn't speak much. I think he spent most of the time staring at me.
It made my uncomfortable.
I could feel his eyes, peering at me. Reassuring himself that I was really there. I was! I am. I am here. He saved me, I know it.
I've always been strong. I take care of myself. But what if Gary hadn't been there? Something would have happened to me.
Had I almost died?