She released her grip. I took off my pack and felt the back of my shirt. The tear in the shirt was vertical, all the way up to the shoulder blade. I could feel the air coming through it.

“I liked this shirt. Got it yesterday.”

She looked at the shirt. Sky blue cotton with a nautical wheel logo, embroidered in gold.

She said, “It’s too preppy for you.”

“That’s what I liked about it.”

“You heard the one about putting lipstick on a pig?” I smiled. I could feel her heat. One human being to another. We looked at each other for a while.

Another cop arrived, running. He was tall, and older. Late forties, early fifties. Distinguished-looking, like he might be comfortable in a command position, or sitting in an executive chair. He had good salt and pepper hair with a complete hairline, intact after running for a couple of minutes. The guy was tanned and had deep lines creasing a handsome face. His name tag read, ‘Bonnet’.

He came to a stop in front of me. He was staring me up and down. He said, “Who the hell are you?”

It was a weird question, considering the situation. I answered, “I’m the little guy you’re supposed to be protecting.”

Bonnet barked an abrupt laugh and glanced quickly towards Nazari, then back at me. He was looking at my shirt and I figured he was concerned about the tear. I said, “It got torn by one of the attackers.”

Interest draining from his eyes, he turned to Nazari. “What’s going on?”

“Attempted aggression. This man is going to make a complaint.”

The two cops had the same insignia, which didn’t have very many stripes. Two relative rookies. C-class officers on a beat patrol.

Nazari stepped back. The heat went with her. She let her older colleague take over, but not in a way that indicated deferral. More like she was letting Bonnet do the boring work. Nazari picked at her fingernails while the cop questioned me. I told him what had happened. Three young guys. Scouted me coming off the train. And then this. He asked for ID. I showed him my US passport. He wrote the number down. He drew out my name. “Mister Tom Keeler.” Wrote it down.

The street carried on bustling around us. There were more important things than two beat cops talking to a big American guy with a torn shirt. There was fresh bread to secure before it ran out. Flowers for the table. Meat from the butcher. People were doing their Saturday morning routine.

The cop explained to me that there had been an uptick in mugging attacks. He almost apologized. He asked to see my train ticket. I handed it over. He wrote something down. Bonnet asked about the muggers. What they looked like. I described them. Young, military-aged males, late teens or early twenties.