silva rerum

And I will make thee beds of roses

I schlepped it huffingly to the bus which, assuredly, I believed to be leaving that instant. Flashing my U-pass, I cast a quick glance before sitting down gingerly on a courtesy seat. I cringe inwardly every time I have to do that – partly because I know it should be reserved for someone else and partly out of a selfish desire for a seat that I would not be required to vacate should the situation arise.

And so it stood that at Cambie, I arose and snatched an open seat faster than desperate housewives pounce on grocery price mis-prints. I sighed in relief and celebrated in my mind, my face not betraying my triumph.

Then I saw her. Wizened, grey hair all about. She sat down uncomfortably, ungracefully, a few seats ahead of me. I studied her only briefly – a definitely senior, East Indian woman with several large bags. Shopping, no doubt. However unlikely at that hour. I paid no heed.

That was my mistake, mea culpa. Seconds later, she bustles over and takes the seat next to mine, sitting awfully, uncomfortably, painfully close. I feel her breathing, shallow and loud, into my left ear. Her leg not only brushes against mine, it makes itself quite familiar with the curves and lines of my leg. I squirm uncomfortably and edge closer to the window. There is no escape.

I hold my breath as I feel her breathing come, heavy and warm, in my general vicinity. I continue to squirm. Inexplicably, unexplainably, she has contorted her body in my general direction so that should I make the most casual, innocuous glance in her general direction, I meet her probing eyes. I purposefully stare out the window and dutifully count the number of lamp-posts from Oakridge Mall to my house.

Passengers board and exit, board and exit, heedless of my very visceral internal struggle and the less obvious external one. I take great pains, make great efforts, to hide the feelings from my face. All the while, my skin contacts hers far more than I would ever like.

I begin the rationalization phase. Perhaps she is an immigrant, newly come to Canada, unsure of our customs of personal space and standoffishness. Perhaps this is the only human contact she has had in six years, aside from an aged doctor who prods and pokes her in uncomfortable, unmentionable areas of her body she fails to name in English. Maybe I resemble some long-lost son of hers, kidnapped on the streets of Mumbai, never to be reunited with his mother, doomed to some existence consisting of looting, pillaging, drugs or some combination thereupon. I puzzle myself into a tempest of thoughts, ever aware that my stop would soon arrive, my time would be up.

I decide to act. I stand decisively, several stops ahead of mine. With great purpose, I turn to exit. She lazily jerks her body into a different conformation. Had I been a much fatter person, I would not have exited with the fluid, liquid, cat-like grace that I did that night. Politely, I mumbled a ‘thank you’ to this stranger with whom I had shared my air and my space as I walked to stand in front of the exit. Other passengers glanced at me, annoyed that I would insist on being an impediment to their exits. I didn’t apologise.

My stop came. I rang the bell. The mysterious woman arose with no great grace and hobbled off the bus at the entrance as I quietly exit through the back of the bus. I did not and do not miss our encounter.

Some of my life stories are written when mysterious benefactors enter and exit my life imperceptibly, leaving behind memories, lessons, thoughts. I think back, musing, remembering, reliving – re-learning.

This story is not one of those.