The man on the bus looked familiar, like the monster she tried to outrun in nightmares.
At each stop, he took a new seat, edging closer. Within ten minutes, he was sitting right behind her, his garlic breath bouncing off the window.
Her hands shook so hard it was difficult to write. Andre’s name looked like the jagged line on a polygraph. She’d intended to invite Andre to the states. A postcard would limit how much she could say. The girl had the habit of scaring men off by being clingy or paranoid. Her last boyfriend had even called her psychotic. Not Andre–although distance and him being French might have accounted for his tolerance.
The man was pawing her hair.
When she jumped to her feet, he said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
A kid on a bike dodged across their lane, and to miss him, the bus swerved sharply, sending the girl airborne.
When she came to, she was strapped to a stretcher in the back of an ambulance. “What’s going on?”
A uniformed man got in and locked the door.
Her throat caught. It was the man from the bus.
“You slammed your head pretty hard. Concussion.”
“But, but, you’re—“
“Sometimes people go into shock.”
“No, you’re him.”
Then she saw the postcard sticking out of his shirt pocket.
“Oh, that? Don’t worry,” he said. “I filled it out for you. Just needs a stamp.”