After two months of living in stiff jeans and scratchy wool shirts, it was a welcome change to feel the bus driver’s appreciative eyes checking out her miniskirt and low-cut blouse. She took an aisle seat next to the woman snoring quietly in the third row.
The bus merged onto the highway and her mood lifted, the pain of rejection replaced by relief at how lucky she’d been to escape a dreary life with a holier than thou hypocrite. Last night she had told Eric that she’d landed a job in the city. “Nothing uplifting or new age,” she had said, pleased at the way her words brought a flush to his normally impassive face. “It’s in a bank, working as a junior teller.” She didn’t care if he believed her or not.
The truth was that she had almost no money and no destination other than the Port Authority Bus Terminal. This had her worried, but not by much. Something always came up.
She turned in her seat, scanning the rows of faces behind her. There wasn’t much to choose from – commuters in business attire, most likely headed for Montpelier, all eyes straight ahead, relishing their solitude – a few guys in hunting jackets – a couple of nuns on their way to God knows where. The woman next to her – hair wound as thick as copper wire into a bird’s nest on the top of her head – was the maternal type, probably going to see her grandchildren .. She imagined her stepping off the bus and being greeted by a family of look-alikes, all of them with red hair and rough skin.
Making her way towards the lavatory at the back, she spotted an interesting profile against the window, a book spread open on the adjacent seat. As she passed, he turned towards her, square-jawed with short dark hair accentuating extra-wide brown eyes, enough shadow on his cheeks not to be jailbait, his bright green polo shirt open at the neck.
“Must be a good book to rate it’s own seat,” she quipped, catching his quick smile without breaking stride.
It was a tight squeeze in the bathroom, but when she came out her ponytail was gone, replaced by a cascade of chestnut curls – an urbane yet vulnerable look she often used to her advantage. She looked over the rows of heads for the reader, wondering how best to approach him while making him think it was his idea. She needn’t have worried. He was holding the book up to attract her attention.
“Come sit with me and I’ll give you a synopsis.” His smile was a little forced – probably nervous that she’d refuse his offer. She was surprised to see light creases fanning out from his eyes, his youth as much an illusion as her casualness.
“I don’t usually read with strangers,” she said.
“Seven hours are a lot to kill,” he coaxed, and she slid in beside him, brushing his knee briefly with her own.
It was a Tom Robbins book, the one where the pagan god Pan attempts to return after centuries of banishment. She liked the way he summarized the story for her, assuming she understood the nuances. “You take the book,” he said. “I’ve got a magazine.” She caught herself perusing the first sentence – The citadel was dark, and the heroes were sleeping – over and over again , until she put the book down, disturbed at how the act of reading while sitting next to a total stranger could hold so much intimacy.
“Ellisburg. We stop here for forty-five minutes,” announced the bus driver, the static of the PA almost but not quite obliterating his southern drawl.
“I wonder how he likes driving all these Yankees around,” said her companion.
“Maybe he picks one off every now and then and dumps the body at the end of the line” She felt stupid having said this and then glad when he laughed.
“Probably buries them behind the bus barn,” he riffed.
“Or entombs them in the luggage compartment,” she added, giggling and lightly nudging his shoulder like they were old friends.
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