A red man. Don’t walk.

I was waiting at the lights of Nicholson and Alexandra, broad daylight. A presence behind me. A threatening shadow. Suddenly a sharpness pressed into my back, and a whisper.

– Money, now.

I’ve often wondered what we do in these situations. What I would do.

We, of the middle-class bourgeoisie who’ve never been in a fight in our lives, our only knuckle grazes to speak of, taken from a chance encounter upon the rough surfaces of our local’s bespoke coffee tables.

In my mind’s eye, I lull him into a false sense of security. Turn, hands shaking. 

– Please, don’t do anything foolish. I’ll give you everything that I have. 

It’s in this moment of my weakness that becomes his, and lightning quick I grab the wrist that holds the hand that holds the knife. A struggle ensues, he drops it, I kick it away, he runs away. 

It seems despite the daily rush of the intersection, there’s no one there to witness my triumph. I can only mutter words under breath, audible to myself alone.

– You’re damn right, son. You’d better run.

A green man.

Back to reality where in all probability, the outcome mundane would consist of one narrator, out of breath and bereft of a previously cash-laden wallet, reluctantly recounting a story of cowardice and shame.

Walk. 

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