A confrontation

I saw red.

He had done something to Emily. She had had a legitimate accident but his was a deliberate choice of petty vengeance. I was moving. My legs carried me forward without my brain's permission, a blind, reckless surge of adrenaline and fury.

He was still standing in the queue. His back was to me, no idea I was coming. I crashed into him.

My shoulder drove into his spine, my arms wrapping around his torso, and we toppled together. He hit the floor with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him, a spray of coffee cups and napkin dispensers scattering around us. Someone screamed. A chair clattered over.

I was on top of him, my knees pinning his arms, my fist already drawing back.

He looked up at me, his dark eyes wide with surprise. Not fear. Not anger. Just pure, unadulterated surprise, like he'd been woken from a deep sleep by a bucket of cold water.

I pulled my fist back, my arm cocked, every muscle in my body screaming to drive it into his face.

He didn't flinch.

Instead, his surprise melted into something else. A scowl. A tired, irritated scowl, the same look he'd worn when Emily had spilled his coffee a week ago.

And then—

The grumbling ceased, again.

The entire cafe fell into physical, absolute silence, again.

No espresso machine, no chatter. Just frozen people, staring with glassy eyes at nothing.

I couldn't move. My arm was locked in mid-air, my fist an inch or two from his nose. My knees were pressed into his arms. My breath was caught in my throat, frozen mid-exhale. I couldn't blink. Couldn't swallow. Couldn't even feel my heart beating.

The man moved beneath me, unhurried. He shifted his weight, planted a hand on the floor, and pushed himself up. I slid off him like a sack of potatoes, landing on my side, still frozen in my fighting pose, my fist still held uselessly in the air.

He climbed to his feet, using a nearby table for support. His breathing was heavy, but he didn't seem rattled. He straightened his jacket, adjusted his collar, and then stepped over me, looking down. His eyes squinted, studying me like a specimen. And I saw him clearly for the first time.

He looked worse than last time I was sure. Considerably worse. The shadows under his eyes were deeper, almost purple, sinking into his skin like bruises. His face was gaunter, the cheekbones more prominent, the hollows beneath them deeper. His hair was greyer at the temples, streaks of silver that hadn't been there before. He looked like he hadn't slept in a month.

I followed his gaze. He was looking at his own lapel. The stain was still there—faint, barely visible, but unmistakable. The ghost of Emily's spilled coffee. He'd obviously tried to scrub it out but failed.

He looked from the stain back to me. His eyes blinked, once, slowly. A flicker of recognition. Of understanding.

He closed his eyes and let out a long, weary sigh.

"Right," he said, nodding. His voice low and tired. "I get it. Yeah, I probably had that coming."

He stepped back, running a hand through his greying hair. He paced a small circle, his footsteps silent on the frozen floor, his eyes unfocused, thinking.

"I admit," he said, "I was perhaps a bit heavy-handed with your girlfriend. I was having a bad day. Just one thing after another. And when she had her accident, I lost my cool for a second."

He stopped pacing. Looked at me again. Then, slowly, he knelt back down beside me, his face coming level with mine. His hand reached out and rested on my chest, palm flat, over my frozen heart.

"I would say I'm sorry," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But it would seem to me that you..."

He paused. His eyes bore into mine. The look of disdain on his face deepened with each word he spoke.

"...haven't. Learned. Your. Lesson."

He held my gaze for a long, terrible moment. Then he stood and turned his back on me. I blinked.

Sound rushed back in like a physical force—just like last time. The espresso machine roaring, people chattering, a milk steamer hissing. My arm completed its arc, punching empty air as I lay sprawled on the floor in the middle of the coffee shop queue.

A few faces looked down at me, mildly shocked. A woman with a scarf clutched her handbag to her chest. A teenager holding a phone stared openly. Jenna the barista leaned over the counter, eyebrows raised.

I scrambled to my feet, my chest tight, my breathing ragged. "I'm fine," I managed, brushing off my shirt. "Sorry about that. Tripped."

The faces lingered a moment longer, then turned away. The queue reformed. The barista went back to work. Life resumed.

I looked around.

The man was gone.

Not in the crowd. Not by the door. Not in the restroom corridor. He had vanished, just like last time, without a trace, without a sound.

My stomach dropped. I had just tackled a supernatural being to the floor. I had tried to punch him. And he had made it very, very clear that that was a mistake.

What did this mean? Just what was going to be waiting for me at home?

I turned toward the door. My feet carried me forward, out of the coffee shop, onto the pavement. The late afternoon sun was warm on my face, but I felt cold all over.

The walk home had never felt longer.