There was one. And another one.
The girl he was looking for was wearing a black trench coat. What he had underestimated was the sheer number of women on the streets who wore a black trench coat. That was discounting the number of men wearing black trench coats too.
There goes another one now, dumping spare change into a beggar’s cup.
Another one sitting on the bench reading. And another one walking past him. And yet another one looking at him.
Wait a second.
It was her. He knew it. She was the right height, she had the right hair. She even had the right freaking boots, he’d noticed them when she’d stomped on his hands the last time they encountered each other.
He began to run.
Problem was, she began to run too. And since it was lunch hour, it seemed that every blasted person within a 10-foot radius was coming out of the office and right into his path.
He turned a corner. The trench coat lay on the ground, abandoned. He snatched it up, then realized it lay over a manhole. With great effort, he heaved it open and stuck his head in.
It spanned 4 tunnels, at least 4 different ways she could have gone. Wherever she was, she was clearly gone now. He couldn’t even hear splashing footsteps.
He stood up, beginning to admit defeat.
Little did he know, his target was far closer than he thought she was. She was right behind him in fact, holding a metal crowbar.
Photo credit: Aurela Fashionista
This idea was just born from me looking at friends and wondering why so many of them like to wear black trench coats. Lol, inspiration comes from everywhere. The story is complete fiction, obviously.