You knew I’d probably be angry. You ran off, leaving me with your jacket, gawking at your retreating form. But it was stupid, really. You had saved me. Twice. I guess that’s what annoyed me.
Why were you so damn nice? I actually looked forward to running into you again. So, when I saw you briskly walking down Los Metropolis Boulevard, I stopped you and gave you a piece of my mind. Even when I was yelling, you looked amused, as if you knew my anger wasn’t really for you.
“If you won’t tell me your name or let me drop your jacket by, then at least meet me for coffee,” I told you.
“Alright. Where at?”
We would meet at the Starbucks down the street, Friday. It was agreed. You tried to walk off again and that’s when I shouted.
“Kenya,” I said. “My name is Kenya.”
You threw me that small smile that told me you could see not only what I was called, but who I actually was.