For a moment it even seems she might say something to me, but he nudges her, so she thinks better of it. Yet every few moments she tries to cover up that she’s peeking. There is nothing on my clothes; my hair is messy, but none of it is standing up straight. The selfie mode on my camera phone doesn’t reveal smeared dirt across my cheeks or mascara down my face.

It’s as though she wants me to recognize her and I scroll through my internal black book. She does seem slightly familiar, but then again, she is a pretty woman in a city with a million pretty women.

At one point the boyfriend holds his phone in a position on his knee that seems to point straight at me. Is he taking pictures? She subtly hits his arm with hers, so he stops and looks away. I begin to fidget—running my fingers through my hair and bouncing my heel so fast I might dig a hole in the floor with my toe.

When the train slows at my stop, I stand up and let my phone accidentally fall to the floor. She swoops down and grabs it with strong hands before kindly smiling as she gives it to me. “Here.” Her voice is slightly husky.

“Thank you.” And with a nod I jump out.

Moments later, I look back to see them escape out the second door. Yet when they see me turn it’s obvious that they pretend to be uninterested in me.

That’s it. There’s no doubt in my mind that they are there for me. But why?

\/\/\/

Later that day, I stand in my classroom, staring out the window.

“How are you, Miss Willow?” many of my students ask.

“Fine,” I lie.

Yet I can tell their intuitive little eyes don’t quite believe me. Especially when they all jump up to go to recess and find that I’ve locked the door. For a classroom of children, this is a safety hazard, yet my instincts seem to be controlled by my fear, as of late. I do these things now without thought.

After the end of school when nearly every child is sent away, the last yellow bus sends a cloud of exhaust as it drives down the street. A white car is all that is left, parked against the brick wall on the other side of the circle drive. Standing there, leaning against the car wearing dark sunglasses, is a man and woman—both breathtakingly beautiful with smooth black skin. The man has long dreads down to his waist and the woman’s hair is nearly shaved, which makes their tall, statuesque, athletic bodies stand out in their perfectly tailored clothing. I look around, but there aren’t any more students left and most of the teachers have disappeared.

“Hi,” I call out, raising a hand to wave.

Before I can walk closer, they jump into their white high-end car and disappear down the road.

“Whoa!” The rough but small voice surprises me. I look to my right where DeSean stands with his backpack on. “You know them, Miss Willow?”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s too bad. That’s an Aston Martin. My dad says he’s gonna get one of those.”

“Speaking of your dad, what are you doing? How are you getting home?”

He looks up with a grin. “I missed the bus.”

“Oh DeSean, what am I going to do with you, kid? Come on, let’s get you home.”

\/\/\/

The next morning, they are all back: the tomboyish blonde woman and her boyfriend on BART, and the beautiful man and woman with the white Aston Martin waiting after school, but who never pick up a child.

\/\/\/

The next Friday night, as my Uber drives away, I wrestle my keys out of my deep cavernous bag. Once again, the streets are quiet except for a few college students huddled together several feet away drinking Starbucks in sweaters and rolled up jeans. A few of the male students flirtatiously play a game of keep away with one of the female’s purses while she meekly tells them to stop.

One long and wide scan of my block before I enter my apartment is now commonplace. Behind me, across the street, is a large man leaning against the metal fence. At first my eyes move past him, but then turn back. His green eyes are captivating underneath thick messy, dark hair. At first, because he is watching me, my pepper spray practically leaps into my hand—but I calm down when taking a closer look and see the relaxed nature of his body. The intensity behind his eyes, yet soft smile, force me to examine him while the college students nearby grow louder and more obnoxious. Not even their disruptive game derails the connection between us. I try to pretend that I am spending most of these precious moments figuring out the key situation, but he knows it is all a facade. His five o’clock shadow and slight wrinkles around his eyes tell me that he is possibly in his thirties, maybe forties. His eyes are a deep green behind olive skin, and he stands nearly two inches above a six-foot-tall gate.

Perhaps instinctively I know that despite his large and assuming frame, there is something about him that is simply safe. I can’t tell what he is thinking, but it seems earnest when he won’t look away.

Suddenly I hear “Watch out!” before one of the students knocks me over as he dives for the purse.

“I’m so sorry!” the guy vehemently states, partially serious and partially laughing.

The man with green eyes rushes forward to the middle of the street as they pull me to my feet.

“It’s fine,” I say as I turn back to my apartment lobby door. Finally, I find the key and with blushing cheeks, I depart, but not before taking one last look at the man with green eyes. There is something so familiar about him.

Inside my apartment, I rush to the window and scan the street. But he is gone—much to my disappointment.

The following morning I gaze at a perfect view of the sun rising over the city out my window, my tea burning my lip as I watch. Perfect rows of stratus clouds line the sky while taps of precipitation pelt my window, leaving sections of my view in watercolor.

As I follow a drop of water down the glass, my eyes catch something in the background. My focus turns to the tall man across the street.

He stands confidently in the middle of the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets—looking at me. As the sun rises, his face becomes clearer under a mist that dampens his dark hair. There is something about him that wraps around me like an old T-shirt, which means that as he watches me in the privacy of my home it seems strange to accept it—or bigger yet, feel as though it makes sense. When the sun finally reaches its place in the gray sky it catches my interest.

“What are you smiling at?”

I jump when a man’s voice hits my ears. Ian stands on the threshold with his Kings bag over his shoulder, wearing a Kings jersey and a Dodgers cap. He is a child.

“You scared me.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you heard me come in. I hollered at you a couple of times.”

“You did? Out loud?” I ask sarcastically.

“You knew I was coming. We talked about everything I needed to get done today and you said you would go.”

Suddenly I remember. “Sorry, I’m just not getting much sleep.”

“Do you need me to move in?”

“I need you to get out of my house if you keep saying stuff like that.” I walk past him into my kitchen, and he follows.

“I’m just kidding. Come on . . . let’s go. Let’s go!” He grabs my purse and stands by the door.

“Why don’t you ever give me more than a few seconds?”

He shrugs. “Come on. I have a lot of things to do.”

We walk down the small corridor and then take the narrow stairs one by one to the lobby. The old door to the street squeaks on its hinges as Ian throws it open, instantly revealing the wet has begun to dissipate.

My heart whimpers just a bit from the downtown buzz because of a jazz festival in the square. Even the people that surround us as we head down the street cause me to sweat and my knuckles to become white. It isn’t until we stop at a crosswalk that I notice the man from my window just a bit to my left. He isn’t looking at the phone in his hand or paying attention to the crowd. Instead, he keeps a steady gaze on me. We have never been this close and my stomach twists. I can’t look away, and it seems neither can he.

As Ian is in his wondrous oblivion, I stare at the green eyes. His hair looks just a bit lighter and his clothes are casual. Under his messy hair he is far from average.