Excellent Packaging

I hear the idea of a footstep. Not the foot itself, but something coming down, a hard shoelace, a bag against someone's side. I turn my head as if a car or house has caught my attention, Is that...? Behind me, some yards back, someone walks. The light is low enough, the lamps are far apart just so. A year ago two people were mugged within minutes of each other and it was lighter than this.

No cars but those parked, no other passersby, his step in tune with mine. When my right foot hits the pavement another sound, another. I take the knife out of my fifth pocket. It is small, Swiss, meant for a keychain, meant to open excellent plastic packaging. I fiddle with it, turn it over in my fingers, put my fingernail in the dent on the side of the thin knife. And what would I do? What kind of hero would I try to be? Go for the neck, go for it often, go for it quickly. The element of surprise. It paints a gruesome picture, but an exciting one. I think over the contents of my wallet and it's not much. But it is the principle.

I flick the blade out. I quicken my pace and he quickens his. Ahead is an intersection, void but filled with red, yellow, green. I slow down. The man complies. I slow further. I stop. He stops. I put my foot down. I hear it. I hear them. My own laces. Tapping against the side of my shoe. I turn around. No person, no man, no masked assailant. Just a long, dark street filled with brownstones and silver sedans. I fold the knife back into its body, put it back in my pocket. I've cut myself.