Echo.

06.11.08
His hoodie was Ecko (presumably). It was an inky black with thick white stitching around the hood. It hid his athletic frame, although making him look bigger than he actually was. His complexion was olive - either European or South American. He wore jeans and a brightly-colored pair of sneakers that had only been released in a small number. Less than 450 pairs had been made by a combination of the two most creative minds in the sneaker industry.
He did a double-take as he saw the chick he'd come for pass right by him on the sidewalk. "This is highly unusual," he thought to himself. He wondered anxiously if the situation he'd just encountered was another one of those damned coincidences that seemed intent on driving him nuts.
"Coincidences? God-sends? Warnings? A figment of my imagination?" he went through the various possibilities in his mind like a revolving door. He wished to God that his father was still alive.
He'd have had the right answers. Though the father/son relationship was particularly curious, the young man had come to rely on his old man's input, advice, words of wisdom, utter wit. His father; his best friend - gone before the relationship he'd belatedly fostered had a chance to evolve to a full-bloom.
A tear made its way down his cheek. His tattooed hand flicked it away quickly, before it had a chance to shatter his manly facade. There was a word that described the man's personality with pure clarity: machismo. He defined the word.
He decided then and there to take off running from this f**ked up situation, leaving the (actually) innocent girl to live her life. He knew where he was headed and knew, instinctively, that he'd be left alone there.
"Potential get-out-of-jail-free card situation," he thought to himself. "Peace out, Chi-Town."
He smiled while walking out on both the city and his cantakerous career.
-b.