The Third Coincidence
An Agatha Christie superfan gets suspicious and finds her soulmate.
Mattie turned the corner onto her street, huffing as she entered the final stretch of her three-mile morning power-walk. She immediately noticed a man lolling against one of the stone pillars bracketing the Moskovitzs’ gate across from her house, arms folded, ankles crossed. By the angle of his head, he seemed to be studying her second-story window — her office.
As if sensing she was staring at him, he turned and caught her gaze. She felt a jolt. It was the guy from the fish and chips takeout place last night. He’d pivoted from the counter, bundle wrapped in butcher’s paper in hand, and smiled at her as she shuffled forward in the line. Was it the same man? She slowed her pace as her heartbeat quickened.
Mattie considered herself a student of detail. She didn’t miss much, at least she didn’t like to think she did. The guy at the fish and chips place had a black leather jacket. This guy was wearing a black leather jacket. Of course, many men wear black leather jackets. The fish and chips guy had a pasty complexion framed by collar-length chestnut brown hair. Like this man. But it was a description that could fit a million youngish men in Queens, let alone the whole of New York City. She was overreacting.
