Not a Psychopath

We both give an awkward laugh. His joke had been bad, but neither of us wanted to admit it. At least he had attempted a conversation instead of keeping the tense silence. That had to count toward something. Besides, someone who was brave enough to tell a corny joke couldn't be that bad. That was the thing about strangers; you could never tell who they were. For all I knew the man jogging next to me could be a psychopath. That would tend to be my luck. Though his soft blue eyes and kind smile painted him as someone with a creative personality. Perhapes he was a writer or even an actor. That would not be my luck. 

"Whats your name?" he gave me a sidewards glance. I hesitated, momentarily entertaining the possibility he could actually be a psychopath. Deciding he probably wasn't I answered.

"Tally," I said. He repeated my name as if to see how it sounded when he said it. A smile graced his lips.

"That is an odd name, I like it," he said, "I'm John. It's a pretty average name right?" 

I nodded and tried to keep from smiling but failed. In the back of my mind I started to peg him as an artist.

"Your quiet for a girl," he said after another lapse of silence. Reallizing he sounded slightly sexist a red tint came over his already flushed face. "That came out wrong! I mean that all the girls I've met are really talkative," he stumbled over his words. I finally giggled a genuine laugh and slowed my jogging to a stop in an attempt to catch my breath. He stopped beside me with a slightly puzzled, yet amused look. His dark hair was still perfect even with the wind that seemed determined to at least ruffle it.

"You meet a lot of girls then?" I teased. The wind succeeded in blowing my own chesnut brown hair into my eyes. I brushed it behind my ear with his eyes watching my every move.

He shook his head and grinned revealing naturally straight teeth. "No, I speak from having many conversations with my sisters. They do love to talk," he ran a hand through his hair and it finally became ruffled. Without giving him warning, I started jogging again. After a moment he was back by my side. 

"If you don't want to talk to me just say it!" he laughed. 

I looked behind us at what had motivated me to get moving. "It's not you, it's him!" I said picking up my pace. John followed my eyes to spot a large Rottweiler running our way. The big dog's leash trailed behind it uselessly. The owner was shouting, running, and failing to catch the dog. John also picked up his pace. 

"Want to have dinner with me if we manage to outrun the dog?" he asked a slight panic noticeable in the humor that he tried to fill his voice with. I glanced back at the dog which was gaining on us. 

I was almost sure now that John wasn't a psychopath so with a leap of faith I said, "Yes,"