He walks toward me like he’s never tripped a day in his life. He’s the sort of guy you would kill before disappointing. You know the type. He’s your father, your teacher, your God. And he would pass right by me if I didn’t say, “Fuck you.” So I do. He stops and I smile. “What did you say to me?” he says. “I didn’t say anything.” “I’m sure you did.” Of course he’s sure. He’s sure about everything, with shoes like that. He could stomp a horse to death with those horrors. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he says. “I am,” I say. “I’m looking at your feet.” He draws his sword. Of course he draws his sword. “Do you know who I am?” he says. “Someone who hears things on bridges,” I say. Or maybe I just think it. It doesn’t really matter. He demands an apology, which is a courtesy not granted to me very often, and I’m guessing he’s even more famous than I thought. With manners like that. “Well, are you going to apologize or not?”
