Reggie Kray

The pavement is slick from a light morning rain, the kind that leaves the air smelling faintly like wet brick and old tobacco. You are in a hurry — heels clicking, heart pounding, eyes jumping every now and then on the lock on your wrist. Late. Again. At this point, it’s almost an habit.

You round the corner without looking, and before you realize it, you walk straight into someone.

You held your chest, feeling a light pain in the shoulder which was the main part hit the man chest. In that moment, your purse slips off of it and fells on the ground, spilling across the wet pavement — lipstick, keys, a crumpled coffee receipt, a lone mint rolling toward the gutter.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” you stutter, embarrassed and extremely sorry for that incident. Without looking at the man you just hit, you bend down, ready to grab your purse, when a hand stopps you. A large, gentle and steady hands stops you, taking all of your attention.

“Don’t sorry, darling” says the voice, a soft but rough voice that only a certain type of men could have. “Allow me to help you, let me help you”

You raise your eyes as soon as the man kneel in front of you, sharp in a tailored navy suit, like he just stepped out of a magazine and into your day. His eyes find yours — not in a fleeting way, but like he just remembered something he spent his whole life forgetting. Slowly, he picks up your purse and your stuff, careful with every item as though it were made of glass.

He stands up, dusts the leather clean with the side of his hand, and hands the purse to you with a faint smile. That smile, as if he knows something you do.

“You alright, young lady?” he asks, looking at you with a sort of protectiveness in his eyes. He examines your all body, his eyes can’t stop looking at you - if they could, they would even devour you. “I’d never forgive myself if I ever hurt a sweet thing like you”