Too late. The collision is inevitable. I glare at my nemesis. He must be at least seventy. Then I register his clothes. No wonder we crashed. Who rides a bicycle in a caftan?
“This is your fault!” I yell. “I’m late as it is and now I also have a run in my tights. I’m going to lose my job because of you!”
His dark eyes rest on my face. I am furious.
We both take a breath.
“Salam,” he says.
Something deep inside me understands and, despite myself, I smile as I turn to continue on my journey. “So long.”