Photo by Ash Gerlach on Unsplash
As usual, there were no seats on the city bus when Cindy got on for her morning commute. She made her way up the aisle until she found a place to stand and looked around her: the regular crowd, all preoccupied with cell phones, newspapers, staring out windows. She sighed and gripped the pole next to her.
A half-dozen more people got on at the next stop, among them a young man about her age who made her stiffen and catch her breath. He was tall, dressed in a woolen sports coat, a dark T-shirt, and jeans, a soft, leather satchel slung over one shoulder. His short, black hair and two-day stubble gave him that intentionally disheveled look she favored. Like her, no ring. He shuffled to another standing spot a few passengers away, and she watched his eyes also travel around the interior of the bus; when they fell on her, they lingered, a small smile crinkling the edges of his lips. She glanced down quickly. The tingling in the bottoms of her feet felt almost electric. She put a hand over her chest and whispered, “Stop.”
The bus chugged on. Cindy busied herself with actions to avoid making eye contact with the young man again. She scrolled through her cell phone for messages. She took her wallet from the purse dangling from her own shoulder, regarded a shopping list inside, then replaced it. She used a compact to check her make-up and slid it back alongside her wallet. She rolled her shoulders, then rubbed each of them.
During that time, the bus made two more stops. People got on and off, and those standing rearranged themselves accordingly. After the second stop, she was aware that the young man had moved back and was standing next to her. Her breathing quickened. When she hazarded a quick glance his way, he was looking at her evenly, the same slight smile on his face. The bus stopped again, a new group of people got on, those standing grew more congested, and he was pushed up against her. He freed himself, cocked his head shyly, and said, “Sorry.”
“No worries,” Cindy heard herself say. “Crowded this morning.”
He nodded. “You ride this bus often?”
“Most days.” She gestured in the direction they were heading. “Going to work.” She paused. “You?”
He shook his head. “No, but my car is in the shop being repaired. So…”
She watched him shrug and nodded slowly herself. Up that close, she noticed a tiny crumb of some sort at one corner of his mouth. It was all she could do not to reach over and brush it off. The color of his skin reminded her of nuts.
He asked, “You have a long commute?”
His quiet gaze was on her again. She met it and said, “Not bad. Twenty-five minutes or so.”
The bus made another stop and more jostling occurred as passengers got on and off. When they began on their way, Cindy watched the young man take a pair of sunglasses out of the inside of his sports coat, fumble with them, then drop them at her feet. She bent down to retrieve them and felt him shove against her again.
She straightened. As he took the sunglasses from her, his hand seemed to stay on hers a beat longer than necessary. He said, “Thanks. Sorry. Clumsy of me.”
He put the sunglasses on so they were propped over his forehead, just a few inches from her own. Only her purse separated them. His eyes were a sort of olive green; they seemed to her kind, thoughtful, beautiful. She fought herself blinking; the tingling at the bottoms of her feet had intensified, and she felt color rising into her cheeks.
The bus stopped again, the rear exit next to them hissing open. The young man pursed his lips and gestured with his chin. “Well,” he said. “This is me.”
She felt her eyes widen, but stepped back to let him pass and climb down the exit. At the foot of the steps, he turned, frowned, and gave her a little salute. She raised her hand in return. Then the doors hissed closed, the bus gave a jump, pulled away into traffic, and he was gone. She craned her neck looking through the windows, but he’d disappeared completely, swallowed up into the throngs on the sidewalk, impossible to tell which direction he’d gone. She realized in that moment that she didn’t even know his name. It dawned on her just as quickly that the chances of seeing him again were all but nil. A shadow crept through her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Cindy thought: the paralyzing missed chance. She shook her head and thought: the irretrievable opportunity.
The crowd on the bus had lessened considerably. A number of seats came open, but still Cindy stayed standing. Several more stops passed before her own approached and she began absentmindedly searching through her purse for her own sunglasses. Even in that distracted state, it took her only a moment to realize her wallet was gone. She searched the floor around her: nothing. Then she pictured the young man dropping his sunglasses, her bending down, and the jostling as he bumped up against her purse. Cindy’s heart dropped, fell like a stone into a well. Her head spun back in the direction where she’d seen him make his salute. She squeezed her eyes shut again and shook her head harder, but all she could see were his green eyes, the crumb at the corner of his lips. All she could feel were his fingertips lingering against hers as he took his sunglasses from her. All she could think was: you’re a fool.
The bus came to her stop. The exit doors hissed open. She knew they’d only stay that way for another moment, so she descended them quickly. Then they clapped shut again, and she stood staring after the bus, an awful numbness filling her.
William Cass has had over 275 short stories appear in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. He has won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal and has received one Best Small Fictions and three Pushcart nominations. A novella, Lucky, is forthcoming from Winchester Writers, and his short story collection, Something Like Hope & Other Stories, was recently released by Wising Up Press. He lives in San Diego, California.