When Mark first saw me, I made the kind of impression that good little Christian gals like me dream of. Quiet, modest, caring and helpful.
“No you can’t have my fucking bag, you arsehole!” I yelled as I kicked a surprised bagsnatcher-wannabe in the shin, then followed it up with an elbow in his face.
“FUCK!” I screamed, as his cheekbone made direct contact with my funny bone and sent a wave of agony up my arm.
The man ran away down the street, nearly colliding with a teenage boy walking towards me. The boy made a grab for him, but he shoved him away and kept running. The teen approached me warily.
“Ummm…” he said, “it’s a bit late to ask if you need any help – but are you OK?”
I nodded weakly and sat down on the side of the gutter, rubbing my elbow. Damn, that thing felt BRUISED.
He sat down nearby and just watched me, looking worried.
“I’m OK,” I said, smiling at his protectiveness, “thanks for keeping an eye on me though.”
“Can I walk you home?” he said, frowning.
“Ummm… you don’t need to.”
“Look,” he said, “You’ve got a bit of a superwoman complex, you know. Why not share the baddies with the rest of us?”
I looked him up and down and giggled. Five foot two of skinny-arse male. Stephen Hawkins would be a better crimefighter.
“OK,” I said, and nodded. “But I get to clean up if you do a lousy job.”
He laughed, stuck out his hand, and shook on it.