Page 2 of Forget Me Twice

Yeah, definitely some flavor of shady motherfucker.

My head is starting to ache the more I take in, the pain becoming almost as loud as my stomach.Time to go.

Head down, I finally slip out of the shadows of the alleyway, heading north and away from the strange corner vigil.

* * *

Half a block down,I spot my mark. A curly-haired professor-type talking loudly on his cell.

Forest green vest. Corduroy trousers. Wallet playing peekaboo in back left pocket.

Gliding past, I angle my body slightly towards the hapless man, shielding both his back and my hand from view. He’s clearly upset at whoever is on the other end of the call, sparing no thought for the grubby teen sneaking up behind him. Without breaking momentum, I brush my fingers across the wallet and deftly slip it free. In the same movement, I thrust it safely into my front sweater pocket and continue forward, weaving through the thinning breakfast crowds.

I don’t glance back.

Another block and a half from my target, when no angry shouts follow, I stop briefly to do a quick assessment of my takings. IfKarmahasn’t come to bite me in the ass, it’ll be enough for a hot drink and something decent to eat. My stomach continues its lament at the thought of a real meal and I roll my eyes. Leaning against the window of a small boutique, my shoulders curled forward, I take a quick survey of the adults flowing by.

Young couple. Matching white tees, blue jeans. Yammering about their upcoming getaway.

Woman. Mousy brown hair. Baby blue blouse. Logo of the bank across the street.

Man. Middle-aged. Fit but sweaty. Pre-shift workout?

There’s a sudden prickle on the back of my neck, but when I cut my eyes over my shoulder and back down the street, there’s no one even remotely paying me attention.

Deciding I’m in the clear, I pull out the creased leather wallet, and thumb through its meager contents with practiced intent. Ignoring the license, library card, ticket stubs and credit cards, I go straight for the cash.

Two twenties, a ten, two fives and four dollars.

I give myself an enthusiastic mental high-five. It’s not a huge haul by any means, but less and less people are carrying cash these days, so I’m calling it a win. I’mabsolutelygoing to be treating myself today. A freshly cooked white chocolate and raspberry muffin and some thrifted winter clothes.

I hum happily. It’s the little things, right?

Sonny’s, my favorite eatery in South Lex, is across the street and a few blocks down. I only really get the chance to eat there when I find myself with a little extra money, or when I desperate for the pick me up. Otherwise I do my best to save on food by dumpster diving behind the choice restaurants or cycling through the local soup kitchens.

Plan sorted, I pull my backpack around, shove the cash safely into the largest pocket and nonchalantly push off from the window. Stealing a glimpse at my reflection, I can see that I’m still alone, taking the opportunity to slip back easily into the flow of sidewalk traffic.

On the way towards the intersection where I need to cross, I slip the wallet into a half-empty trash can. As I step up to the curb, I check my surroundings and notice a man to my right.

Orange mountain bike. Fluorescent yellow and pink lycra shorts. Matching vest. Water bottle.

Across the street a young girl with strawberry-blonde braids is being led by her Guide dog.

I look away from them just as that little spark of unease tickles between my shoulder blades again. This time I don’t risk looking around. If it’s the man from the corner, I’ll just have to hustle and hope he loses interest in me.

I keep my hood forward, trying to relax my posture as I make my way quickly across and down the block. I try matching my breaths to each step, then distracting myself with thoughts of breakfast, but the growing paranoia and headache doesn’t let up. I can’t shake the feeling someone is following me, stealing sidelong peeks in the windows of the stores as I march by.

By the time I reach the quaint little building that houses the café, my neck and shoulders are tense and I’m just a little bit hangry. With a frustrated grunt, I push throughSonny’scharming stained glass door, determined to find somewhere to sit that will allow me to keep one eye on the front windows. I can camp there until all the creeps have cleared out, heading to work for the day.

The bell overhead has barely finished ringing before I’m at the counter and rushing out my order. Snatching my table number, I make a beeline towards the far back corner where I can see my favorite set of battered and mismatched velour wing chairs, each one pushed right up to a scratched, low-rise table.

It’s very cozy, and super warm now that I’m out of the wind, but I’m more concerned with the uninterrupted view it gives me of any customers coming in and out of the eatery.

As soon as the bouncy, freckled barista with sun-bleached hair and a wide, friendly grin drops off my muffin and hot cocoa, I fall on them with rabid enthusiasm. It’s been at least a month since I’ve had anything resemblingfreshly bakedrather thantwo-day-old leftovers.My earlier anxiety slowly ebbs away with each delicious mouthful.

I’m so caught up in enjoying the whipped cream, dreamy chocolate drizzle, and the fact that my headache has begun to wane, that I totally forget to keep focus on my surroundings. So it’s not until I lower my cup on a happy sigh that I realize I’m no longer alone.

Shit.

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