StarCat/CatStar

who believe pedestrians don't matter. Since she started walking she's had at least
one near miss a week with drivers who treat traffic laws as a set of guidelines. She
uses up the first seven seconds of crosswalk time to triple check the traffic flow
before she steps out into the intersection.
As she crosses Fairfax, she wonders if she should call the old boyfriend, but
then she remembers she doesn't have his number. She could do an Internet
search or see if he's on Facebook. She starts to compose an imaginary email: Dear
____, I hope this letter finds you well and happy. I, too, am well and happy. I have
an active, happy life. I'm always on the move. I was wondering; I know it might
sound weird, but I've been having weird dreams lately. You've been in my dreams.
Nothing strange is happening. You just appear in the background a lot. I wonder...
have you been dreaming about me too? Really? Wow, that's great! What am I
doing in your dreams? I'm doing WHAT?! Really? Don't make me blush!
Seconds before, he spotted the woman. She walks fast and with a purpose, her
head held high, her stride confident and almost impudent. As he takes in her
expensive sneakers, Ipod, and chic sunglasses, the ball of anger expands into
rage. Here's was another one, another person who'll walk around him like he's
nothing, a blip on the radar screen of her consciousness. I'm a person,
goddammit! She doesn't own the fucking street!
She's deep in her imagination, having turned her imaginary email into an tetea-tete
as she walks west on Venice Blvd. She doesn't notice the man as he alters
his trajectory to match her exact steps and
SMACK!
BAM!
In front of her is pair of eyes blaze with anger and accusations. She stops,
flustered. He takes another step, closes the space between them and leans
forward. She stands her ground, curious, and also irritated by the interruption of
reality.
“Why won't you talk to me?” he demands.
She pauses. Her mind races. She frantically searches her memory, tries to spot
him in random corners. She wonders where and if they've met, in what context,
but she comes up with nothing. She takes note of his cadaverous frame, ashy skin,
the pronounced veins on either side of his forehead, and the MTA bus pass that
hangs pathetically around his neck. She sees his shoulders underneath a tatty
blanket are tense with rage. She knows he's not going to leave her alone unless
she gives him an answer.
“Hi! Um... Well, I've been busy...” she begins and then tries to dodge past him.
His left arm, a dark steel bar, rises up with the speed of anguish to stop her.
Panicked, her right arm rises up to block his. They connect in combat on Venice
Blvd. For a second, she flashes back to jousting matches at Ren Faires from years
past. He remembers holding his arm up in triumph to adoring crowds at the
Palladium, at CBGB's, at the Hollywood Bowl. For nano-seconds, they look at each
other, and wonder why... why... why…
Author bio: Marie Lecrivain is the editor of The Whiteside Review: A
Journal of Speculative/Science Fiction, a Pushcart Prize nominee, and
writer-in-residence in her apartment. She's the author of several works of
poetry and fiction, including Grimm Conversations .