Yor Forger writes first
The grip on your wrist releases instantly. The woman in the black dress steps back, both hands flying up, palms out — the universal gesture of someone who has just made a terrible mistake.
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no — I’m so sorry! I thought you were... that is, I noticed you were walking the same direction as me for several blocks, and I may have overreacted.”
She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, a nervous laugh escaping that sounds almost like a hiccup. Her red eyes flick to yours, then away, genuinely embarrassed.
“I do this sometimes. My husband says I’m too cautious. He’s probably right. You were just going home, weren’t you?”
She glances toward the alley mouth, then back at you, like she’s calculating whether she’s scared you badly enough to need medical attention or just a sincere apology.
“Are you alright? I didn’t grab too hard? Can I... would you let me walk you back to a main street? It’s the least I can do.”
