[ WP ] You slip on a coat .

The gentleman slipped on the coat with gentle affection. I was too drunk for much perceptiveness, but I was pretty positive he'd tickled my ribcage before returning to his position beside the coat rack. 
 
 `` Thank you,'' I said. 
 
 `` Do n't mention it,'' he replied. No eye contact. 
 
 My date had left several minutes ago in a rage, but I was n't going to waste any of the food she'd bothered to order, nor any of the wine she hinted I buy. A whole bottle of Seins Ivres and I did n't even like red wine. Still, I drank the bottle. 
 
 I could n't remember what I said that finally pushed her to leave. She'd muttered something about my misociginy before slapping me and taking off. Her coat hung there on the rack, but I did n't get it for her. If she wanted it, she could come get it. Maybe she'd leave a tip, since I did n't. 
 
 I was a block down the road before hearing the soft jingle of keys, muffled by the thick material of the coat. My keys were in my pocket, so I wondered whose keys I had. I shoved one numb hand into the left pocket and felt around. A few tumbleweeds of lint and a lighter greeted me. My right hand found the keys in its corresponding pocket. 
 
 They were for the Ritz a few blocks down. I'd decidedly been given the wrong jacket, seeing that I did n't smoke nor was I staying at the Ritz. My dilemma was not: `` Should I bring the jacket back,'' but `` Should I bring it back tonight.'' After all, I was going home alone anyway. I might as well spend it in someone else's room. They might not make it back anyway. 
 
 Those were the drunk thoughts that clouded my internal navigation. By the time I'd looked up, I was three blocks from either the Ritz or the restaurant and not in walkable distance to my own, real home. In fact, I was n't sure where I was at all, but most of the buildings were boarded up. 
 
 I could n't tell if I felt it or heard it first, but they both registered as a whole. A gunshot. Simple, low-caliber. Maybe not meant to kill me, since I had n't died, but I sure enough fell on my face. From where I was laying, I thought the bullet was lodged in my hip. 
 
 Some dress-shoed footsteps tapped up beside me and flipped me over with a kick. Even if I wanted to see who was attacking me, I could n't. A streetlight shadowed their faces from above. Or maybe it was Heaven, reaching down to me. 
 
 `` It's not him,'' one of them said. 
 
 `` What do you mean?'' the other said. `` That's his jacket. It's got his damn initials sewn in the back.'' 
 
 `` This guy must've stolen it.'' 
 
 `` Shit. Do we kill him?'' 
 
 `` That's not really our business. He might die anyway.'' 
 
 `` I do n't think so. Just give him a good kick and we'll head back around.'' 
 
 `` Right.'' 
 
 Things went black for a while. Probably longer than usual, since I'd hit peak inebriation on the walk home. Not enough to forget what happened, just enough to sleep through the pain. I do remember, in that sleep, I dreamt my date tried to meet me back at the restaurant, but I was gone. There was no regret on her face, but curiosity. 
 
 I awoke in a different jacket, my jacket, but the blood had seeped through still. There was no lighter in my left pocket, but there was something in my right pocket. A tightly folded piece of paper with initials signed on the front. Inside it read: 
 
 `` Dear Kind Stranger, 
 Thank you for borrowing my jacket for a bit. I knew I was being followed, but I was n't sure by whom. You can rest assured knowing that I've taken care of your aggressors and returned your jacket. I'm deeply sorrowed that you had to take a bullet for all of this nonsense, and sorrowed further that I have no way to compensate you for now. Maybe someday, I can repay you. 
 Farewell for now, An Unkind Stranger'' 
 
 Even with the hangover, I was fascinated by whatever I'd been a part of. Mostly curious, but fascinated. Even there, in the cold concrete of the forgotten street I'd stumbled down, I did n't feel so bad about the bullet in my side. Especially at the thought of future compensation. 

