He’s on the bus. But this time, he’s alone. Out the window he can see the blue lights reflecting off the snow. The flakes flutter, touch and disappear. He can see his reflection but the curved bus mirrors distort his shape. Unless he had gained weight, it wouldn’t be the first time. He turns back to the window and the shift pulls one headphone out of his ear. There wasn’t any music playing anyway.
It’s a thirty-minute ride each day. The same street names appear on the display: Carter, Acadia, Leafturn. There are the same stores, the same ads, the same houses. No matter how long he squints into the distance looking for differences, the city stays the same. But there are always different people. Each day, a different soul with a different story. I want to look at them and know who they are.
The bus slows at Creole Avenue. The buildings here are high, and the people’s noses even higher. He breathes in the winter air, it stings. Boutiques, upscale sushi bars, the signs of success stare at him, mocking. The people here don’t need buses. The people here don’t walk in the snow. They don’t ruin their Balenciaga pumps, soak their Versace handbags. They don’t notice people like me.
One suitcase hits the bus floor; the vibration jolts him from his thoughts. It’s not Prada, Gucci or Chanel. It’s not even nice. Behind it, a young Filipino woman brushes the snow off of her bare arms. Her hands seem purple and stiff. She can barely clasp the change in her jean pockets, but manages to drop her fare in the slot. He can’t see her face as she walks by, but the cold off her skin emanates towards him. He shivers. There she is, there is my story.
---
She’s in the snow. Finally alone, her freezing body moving as fast as it can. It’s just getting dark, the streetlights buzz as she passes them. They will be home soon, they will know. Her hair is damp with a mixture of sweat and water and it freezes, slapping her skin as it moves. There was no time to prepare, no time for a coat. She had to go somewhere, anywhere. Above her, small bursts of steam from her breath float upwards into the night. God, God, please save me, please.
She has known this street for far too long. These people, these faces, they are always the same. She can feel them staring, sneering, judging. The shops are only blurs as she runs faster, cupping her face in her hands as the chilled wind punches. The buildings are wind tunnels, the buildings are tall. Everything is pushing her out, but she knows if they find her, they will pull her back. They will scorn her. It’s a maze, my maze, there is no way out.
She reaches the corner. The bus stop, some warmth in the cold. She has never been allowed this far, not without them. Everything is new here, everything is safe. She parts her hands from her face just long enough to see a bus in the distance. Just long enough to allow the wind to hit her once again. The wind is not as bad, the wind is nothing. She barely has anything of her own. What’s left of her belongings is packed tightly into a suitcase that’s slowly tearing at the edges. What’s left of her is packed tightly into this body; she’s tearing slowly at the edges. I will get on this bus and let it take me away.
She can’t feel her hands, her arms, her face. The bus brakes screech to a halt in front of her, and the doors open like she imagined they would in heaven. Her suitcase tears once again as she uses what’s left of her strength to lift it onto the bus. It comes down with a crash. Attention she didn’t want drawn to herself. With fare paid, she wheels past the only other person around, and covers her face. She’s paranoid. He’s looking at her. She’s paranoid. He’s not looking at her. I’ll sit behind him so he can’t look, so he can’t know.
---
He stares. She catches his glance, grasping it like a crutch. He follows her, she moves behind him and slides into the seat. He can feel her cool breath. He can feel her tears. He can feel her. He turns back, staring, but she looks away. She tries to hide her tears, wiping them quickly from her face. But he knows, he sees, he understands. He can feel her body, quivering, restless. He can feel her heart, pacing, relentless. This is not like anyone he has ever seen before. This is not a normal girl, this is not a normal story. She wants to be seen, she needs me, she needs me.
He twists, it alarms her. He twists, confronting her. Her eyes are glazed, face pale and cold. But she sees him. He reaches out, lengthening his arms towards her. She hesitates, but accepts his acquaintance. She accepts him. He can see her tear lines, they are raised and red. He looks at her. She looks at him. They are on the bus. They are alone. They are on the bus, together. They are on the bus, they are on the bus. We are not alone, we are not alone.
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