We’ll Always Have Paris. Ray Bradbury

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      As soon as he saw my glance he walked away, farther on up the street, where he stopped again and looked back.

      After a few more of these silent exchanges, it came to me what was going on. Instead of following me from behind, he was following me by leading the way and looking back to make sure that I came along.

      The process continued for an entire city block and then finally, at last, I came to an intersection and found him waiting for me.

      He was tall and slender and blond and quite handsome and seemed, somehow, to be French; he looked athletic, perhaps a tennis player or a swimmer.

      I didn’t know quite how I felt about the situation. Was I pleased, was I flattered, was I embarrassed?

      Suddenly, confronted with him, I stood at the intersection and said something in English and he shook his head.