It All Began on the Bus

It All Began on the Bus

The bus lurched forward and the woman standing beside me lost her balance. As she began to fall into me, I caught hold of her arms bust below the elbows. My hands slid down to her wrists. Flustered, the woman looked into my face with wide eyes. But when I loosened my grip on her wrists, she smiled and apologized for being so clumsy. Returning her smile, I shook my head and said, “It’s the damned public transportation.” She laughed and looked away, out the bus window.

Someone yanked the wire and a block later the bus pulled alongside the curb. The woman bumped me as she hurried past. She shouldered her way through the crowded bus to the front exit, where before stepping down she glanced around once, smiled at me, and stepped off the bus.

I watched her through the window. She moved briskly up the boulevard. The bus reentered traffic and she disappeared into the crowd. I went to adjust my glasses and that’s when I noticed the woman’s perfume on my hands.


Later that morning while working at my desk, I could not get her off my mind. I laid my pencil down and brought my hands to my nostrils. The perfume was vanilla based, subtle yet crisp. With my in-box full of paperwork, I found myself doing little more than trying to remember the woman’s face. She was not beautiful. There was nothing memorable about her. Already her image was fragmented, a blur inside my head. Still, the perfume that had transferred from her wrists to my hands evoked some desire I’d long suppressed. I thought about a time in my life when everything was a little smaller, a little simpler, a little more intimate.

I dialed my home number and my wife picked up on the second ring. She was startled to hear my voice at this time of the morning. “Is something the matter?” she asked.

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to tell you I’ve been thinking of you and I missed you.”

For a moment she remained silent. Then she said, “I miss you, too. Nothing’s wrong right.”

“Everything’s perfect,” I said. When she didn’t reply, I said, “Look. Let’s do something together tonight. Dinner or something. It’s been too long.” She didn’t know how to respond, and I told her to leave the plans up to me. Before hanging up, I promised to call again after lunch.


At lunch I walked four blocks to a deli my wife and I used to frequent when our marriage was still alive and full of wonder. After standing in line for fifteen minutes, the man behind the counter shouted my order back to the cook. A grilled cheese sandwich with pickles on the side and a bottled water. He punched the buttons on the register and while he looked at me, he told me how much I owed. I reached back to retrieve my wallet from my rear pocket and a rush of adrenalin bolt through me as I discovered my wallet was not there.

In an impatient tone, the man behind the counter repeated the amount I owed. He frowned and wiped his hands on his apron. The crowd must have been alerted by his expression, because as I rechecked my rear pockets a few people behind me in line groaned. I ran my palms over my front pant pockets, then raised my hand inside my coat to my shirt pocket. Nothing. I remembered the woman on the bus. Was it possible that when she nearly fell into me -- Of course that’s what had happened. That’s why her shocked expression. That’s why she rushed past me and off the bus. That’s why she hurried away on the sidewalk. I’d been taken for a fool.

Feeling both furious and ashamed, I pants my pockets again and shook my head. The man behind the counter leaned forward. “It’s lunchtime, bud,” he said. “The crowds getting restless. I’m getting restless, too. Now should I cancel that grilled cheese or you going to come up with the bill?”

Red-faced, I was about to cancel the order when I felt my wallet in my left coat pocket. I have never in my life stowed my wallet in my coat. Ever. But how? I apologized for the delay paid the bill, even included a generous tip. My tray was slid across the counter and I picked it up and took it to a table near the window and sat down. What had happened? How had my wallet had got into my coat pocket? I decided to dismiss the thought and before eating, I brought my hands to my nose again.

As had the woman’s image in my mind -- the smell of vanilla on my hands had already faded.