Bob

You did it again. This is New York. People don’t make eye contact here - especially not on 42nd Street.

All you were doing was walking Butch. So he’s a Great Dane, weighs 200 lbs, stands as tall as your waist and walks ahead of you, weaving back and forth across your path. So you carry on a monologue with him as the two of you walk along, dodging passers-by, trash cans, an occasional pile of unclaimed poop and other detritus of street life in the Big Apple. So what?

You were walking towards Time Square when you spotted Bob - at least, you thought it was Bob - your old high school sweetheart. The one who asked you to the prom. The one who broke your heart by leaving you high and dry on prom night to dance every dance with Betty. The one you never wanted to see again. Ever!

It might have been Bob. He was the right height - about six feet tall. His hair was a little thinner than you remembered, and his waistline a bit thicker. But he carried himself with that same jaunty air - an aura of confidence in his own charm. And he was still a hunk.

You couldn’t be certain, though. You had to look into his eyes - to penetrate his facade. The eyes never lie. You wanted it to be Bob. You wanted to stroll up to him nonchalantly and show him that his rejection of you had been a mistake. A big mistake. The biggest mistake of his life. You heard that he had married Betty. You wanted to hear that she had turned into a fat, frumpy hausfrau. You wanted to make Bob suffer.

So you stared at him, making eye contact as he approached. Butch decided to stare, too. And bark. A lot. And the hunk - not Bob after all - ran the other way.

©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.

A Note of Explanation: For this prompt, we were to imagine the following scenario: You are approaching someone on a city street. From several yards away, you make eye contact. The other person turns and runs away. Why?