Loves Me Not

Beautiful Flowers

There comes a point in every woman's life when she must make this choice; continue walking on the side of the street where the dangerous looking man sat on the bench, or walk over to the other side where a bunch of high schoolers were fooling around.

On the one hand, the high schoolers were just a group of harmless boys whose greatest rebellion was staying out past curfew. On the other hand, the man sitting on the bench was dressed like a hooligan—in all black with a spiky leather jacket, with chains dangling from his ripped jeans and various piercings she could see glinting even from this distance. The man seemed to love spikes so much that even his hair was styled like a pocupine's back. More than this, there was a motorbike parked beside the bench that she was sure belonged to the hooligan.

The answer was obvious. Benign high schoolers trumped spiky stranger in black. She crossed the road to the other side and let out the breath she had been holding.

It was late. She was tired. Her hardass Chief of Operations had kept her entire team working past nine to finish up their latest project. True, it had been her clumsiness that led to the situation and it was only fair that she stayed to fix her mess. But the extra hours had taken their toll and now exhaustion was wearing her down.

She wasn't mentally present, walking forward on autopilot. So when the first boy blocked her path, she simply apologized for bumping into him and moved aside. And when he blocked her path again, she thought he had simply made the mistake of moving in the same direction as her.

But then he spoke, "Hey, pretty Noona. Don't you have some cash on you? Me and my friends are starving."

She looked up. Oh, no. Alarm bells started ringing in her head as she turned this way and that. But the boys had surrounded her from all sides, cutting off all means of escape. They leered at her like a pack of hyenas.

"Ki-Kids," she hated how her voice wavered in fear, "Stop-Stop this. Don't bother me."

The boys laughed at her, further weakening her resolve.

"You-You should all be-be at home. Aren't your parents going to be worried?"

The boys cackled again. "Why don't you take me to take me to your home, baby?" One of the boys made a gyrating motion.

Her cheeks flushed in humiliation. Eyes stung, threatening to tear up. She clutched her purse, as if it could protect her. One of the boys moved to snatch it and out of nowhere, she slapped him.

Whether it was reflex or instinct, she didn't know. But she did know that it was a mistake. A big one. Because then the boy raised his hand to hit her back.

"Eek!" She flinched, closing her eyes. There was a soft smacking sound where skin met skin but she felt no impact. She peeked on eye open, then the other. A strong, bony hand, clad in thick rings, was holding the wrist of the boy who had raised his hand.

Huh?

It was the hooligan from the other side of the street. He was there to save her.

If he had seemed scary from afar, he was terrifying now. She could see the various piercings on his face—in the middle of his nose and the middle of his lower lip, along with three or four on each ear—and those evil looking eyes, made more intense by the heavy eyeliner.

"Yah!" The boy with the caught wrist tried to yank his hand away but the hooligan's grip was too strong. "Don't you know who I am? My father is a very important man."

The hooligan was unimpressed. In one swift kick to the chest, he sent the boy flying backwards, landing on a heap of trash. The other boys backed away in fear.