| Whether it rains or snows on the bus-stop, she's always there. She wears a yellow bandanna, so I still don't know the color of her hair. She stands by the bench, pays the fee in dimes, and sits in the back every time, carrying a cloud of narration with her like a bonnet. Almost thinks aloud. Studious and rapt, she's wrapped up in an inner dialogue. I seek her eyes, but she's in a fog. She's making movies in her head. Nothing's ever said on the bus, just visuals and tension of the crowd. Oh, the girl is watching us. and I know I'm in that cast. No personal rapport: I'm just an extra, part of the decor, proving that we're all quarantined with our knees like a fence, pointed at eachother in self-defense. But if I stand up and move, intercepting her gaze, she might give me a name. And if I say something witty, the crowd fades to black, and the bus is no longer the same. With each step down the aisle, my role would expand. I gather her wrists in one hand and, with the other, reveal her hair, at last. Why then, she would give me a past. I scream in her face. Now I'd never be forgotten, never be replaced--a character as real as the spittle on her forehead. I would be a plot device. A catalyst. A twist. A man with a backstory clutching her wrists. Of course, none of this happens. She pulls the cord; everything stops. The girl disembarks and the bus disappears. |