"How did you do that?"
The voice floated up to me,
Not out of my subconscious mind, as I preferred,
But from another world,
A world I had purposefully disengaged myself from.
A world I wasn't ready to return to, yet.
She laid her hand on my arm,
Her warm touch like a pipeline,
Feeding reality back into my being,
Awakening me to my surroundings.
"Huh?" I answered brusquely,
Dismayed at being taken away,
From unfinished plot lines,
And realistic character development.
"That mugger," she pointed out.
"You snapped his wrist in two,"
"Weren't you scared?"
She said to me, looking a little weary.
That's when I noticed the dark bulk
Of a man fleeing from us,
Holding onto his shattered appendage,
The glint of the knife blade where it fell on the sidewalk.
"Oh," I muttered.
"Oh," she repeated, shocked.
"You weren't even scared, or anything?"
"What are you, some kind of psycho?"
"No, I'm a writer," I told her,
Moving away,
Channeling myself back into my undeveloped story,
The only thing that truly mattered.
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