As I lunged forward, I couldn’t help but having to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach; like something bad was going to happen (hasn’t it already?) or that she could predict my moves.

A few seconds later, I was proved correct. Her hand grabbed my wrist, and I was tossed over her small body, landing heavily on the ground.

She stood over me proudly, her dark curls blanketing her face, and her eyes sparking with the exhilaration of close combat.

“You know,” she said, slightly breathless, “you know what an old mentor of mine used to say? He used to tell me I’d better have a ‘damn good poker face’ in times of trouble.”

My mind spun momentarily, and I didn’t really register what she was saying. It set in, soon enough.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. If you’re too stupid to know what a poker face is, then you’d better go back to kindergarten, sonny.”

The words played themselves over in my head, and my blood ran cold.

I shook my head, and she looked at me queerly.

Just coincidence, right?