stairs, arms swinging with youthfulness long since alien to either of them, and it must have
happened then. Her coat was loose on her, and those pockets just sagged so much, that it couldn’t
have been anything but an accident. A ‘coming-together’ as her mom would say. One haphazard
swing of an arm and his clumsy mitt must have found its way into the damn thing. The fact that
she shrieked really was a most unfortunate overreaction.
wrinkles, wriggling to get free of his hand burrowed deep in her coat pocket. His puffy vest and
stained shirt didn’t do him any favors either. But for Christ’s sake it was just a coat pocket, yes a
coat pocket containing a wallet, but couldn’t everyone see he didn’t mean anything by it? He was
just going to let go, release the wallet, release the girl, give a sheepish apology and walk away. It
would just be chalked up as one of those moments; one column in the endless array of moments
that arise from bumps and nudges on the subway stairs.
She knew it was nothing. She had seen him around the neighborhood, never knew him of
course, but he certainly wasn’t the type to be a thief. And she really didn’t mean to scream either;
it was more a scream of excitement, a scream of another pulse slipping into her clothing. She
didn’t shout ‘Police!’ or ‘Help!’ to her credit. She trusted it would be resolved soon. Everyone
has self-doubts, but she knew she was pretty enough and he was boorish enough that the rules of
civilized society would kick in any time now and he would shrink away for fear of public shame.
He must’ve known how this looked to the people streaming past them, rushing to catch trains,
running home just to take their shoes off that much faster. She also knew it was supposed to
happen by now. Convention was supposed to swoop in already, and she really wasn’t willing to
give in to the hot shame welling up in her cheeks.
He wanted to pull his hand out, honest to God, he did. He certainly noticed the semicircle
amassed around the two of them now, and if nothing else, he wanted to do it for them. He had to
show them that as their neighbor, their buddy, he knew how silly this looked too. He agreed with
them, two minutes is entirely too long.
She didn’t want to deal with this. Not here, not now. She was the one that was supposed
to cry, she was the one who was one second away from being robbed, but here he was blubbering
on the stairs for everyone to see. She slipped her hand into her pocket, took his hand, and led him
outside.
Gideon Nachman was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, but now lives just outside of Boston. He splits his time between performing in improv comedy shows and writing. This is his first piece published in Scapegoat Review. His work has also appeared on ThoughtCatalog.