It was raining hard enough to make the wind howl off Lake Michigan. The 29 on South Halsted is a bad bus for anything you want to do, but I knew where she would be because nobody else knows that part of Chicago well enough to avoid it.
She got on at Belmont, standing near the doors in a heavy wool coat with the collar turned up and her hands shoved so deep into the pockets they disappeared completely. Short brown hair tucked under a thin knit cap. A leather strap across one shoulder holding something flat. She didn’t look at the people getting on or off. Didn’t look at anything except out the window where the streetlights were already on.
I sat in front of her and put my book back down without reading it. That’s what you do. You read, then you stop, just for a moment to see if she notices you noticing her. If she does, good. If not, nothing happens and you go home.
She was looking out the window again when the bus hit a bump at Roosevelt. Her shoulder came into my arm hard enough that I felt the bone under the denim of her jacket. She didn’t pull away or apologize. Just shifted and let it happen.
“Excuse me,” she said, without turning around. Not to me but to the air in general, the way you talk when you’re nervous and don’t want to be rude.
The bus was full enough that nobody had room to move past her except me. I didn’t say anything either. Just kept my book down on my lap like it was something interesting I wanted to finish.
“Roosevelt,” she said, as if testing the word out loud. “I am getting off here.”
“And then?” I asked. Not because I cared about her destination but because I wanted to see what her mouth would do with a question.
She turned around finally and looked at me for exactly three seconds. Long enough that I could see small silver hoops in her ears, dark circles under her eyes from too little sleep or too much worry, not enough money. Not enough time either, which is how it usually goes when you have to work two jobs just to make rent on a one-bedroom apartment with peeling paint and thin walls.
“Then I get off,” she said flatly. “You keep reading.”
“I prefer talking,” I said, putting my book down completely so it lay face up on my lap like an invitation.
Her lips tightened for half a second but then relaxed into something that might have been amusement if you weren’t looking too hard. The bus moved forward and her shoulder hit mine again when the brakes engaged. This time she didn’t pull away. Just leaned in with me, as if it was natural to be this close on a crowded bus at seven-thirty on a Friday night.
“I work at the laundromat on Pulaski,” she said. “The one that stays open until four. I fold the towels. You know how it is.”
“The towels never fold themselves, do they?” I asked.
“No. They come out of the dryer all wrinkled and angry like nothing has ever made them feel before. Then you have to make them feel better.”
“Is that what happens at your job? Making things feel better?”
“I suppose,” she said, looking down at her shoes for a moment, then back up at me with those same dark circles still there but something else underneath now, softer and warmer. “I guess I do make people feel less alone sometimes.”
The bus stopped at Taylor and everybody got in front of me, pushing past like they owned the place. When it finally moved again she was standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders from behind. Not touching like she was trying to get something else out of them but just holding on for balance while the bus lurched forward.
“I am not going anywhere,” I said without turning around. “I know this city. I will get you where you need.”
She laughed and it was a good laugh, low and honest, and then she let her hands drop away. The bus hit another bump and her hip came into the small of my back again, hard enough that both of us made sounds we didn’t mean to make. Her breath smelled like coffee and maybe cigarettes from yesterday.
“Sorry,” I said when nobody else was listening. “It’s this bus.”
She leaned in close so only she could hear me over the noise of rain and tires on wet pavement, and her voice went quiet but still steady. “No. It is you.”
I looked at her then properly for the first time. The way a person looks when they’ve decided something about themselves and are ready to act on it. Her coat smelled like wool and damp cold air from outside, which meant she had been standing there longer than I thought. Maybe since before Roosevelt. Maybe she had watched me reading while pretending not to notice because she was waiting for this exact moment.
“Tell me,” she said. “What is your name?”
I didn’t think about it long enough to lie. “Elias.”
“And you are getting off at Taylor?”
“Yes.”
She looked out the window again where the streetlights were reflecting on the puddles and her reflection was there too, ghostly in the glass beside mine. For a moment she just watched herself move with the bus without saying anything, thinking about something important enough not to let me know what it was.
Then she turned back around and put her hands under my arms from behind again, this time properly holding on like she meant to stay there until the stop came or I told her otherwise. Neither of us moved first. But when the bus finally stopped at Taylor and opened its doors, Elias didn’t step away immediately. He just stood there in the rain with her still behind him, hands under his arms, breathing together for a few more seconds while all four hundred people got on and off around them without noticing anything had changed between two strangers who had been holding each other against the motion of a Chicago bus at night.
When we finally walked out into the rain I didn’t have an umbrella or any intention to get one. The street was empty except for us walking side by side, not talking but moving together like this was something that had happened before and would happen again in some version of tomorrow where we actually remembered each other’s names properly instead of just the feeling of wool coats and wet shoulders and a woman who knew what she wanted and said it out loud.
“You live near here?” I asked as we turned onto her street.
“North side,” she said, pointing up toward something that looked like apartments but probably wasn’t because everything in Chicago changes every six months and nobody keeps their promises anyway. “I have to work tomorrow at seven. You should go inside.”
“I am not going anywhere until you tell me what is wrong with the bus on Taylor,” I said.
She stopped walking then, turning fully toward me in the streetlight even though there was nothing but rain falling hard enough to make the whole city feel like it was coming apart. Her face looked tired and honest both at the same time, no makeup except maybe a little lipstick that had already been eaten away by her mouth while she talked about towels and making people feel less alone.
“Nothing is wrong with the bus,” she said softly. “It’s just that I haven’t had anyone tell me what they want in six months.”
I reached out then, not touching her but letting my hand hover at the small of her back where her coat was still wet from the rain. “Then let me do it now.”
She smiled and it changed everything about her face all at once, like she had been holding something inside her for so long that finally being able to put it down made her look ten years younger. Ten years older too if you counted the lines around her eyes from laughing this hard in the dark street with a man who knew exactly what he was doing and wasn’t afraid of getting caught at it.
“Come on,” she said, stepping off the sidewalk and into the wet pavement without hesitation. “My apartment is above the grocery store on Division. We can make coffee. And you can tell me about your book.”
I followed her because that’s what people do when they’re not sure whether to run away or stay exactly where they are. I wanted both things equally, which is how it usually goes when you meet someone who actually knows what she wants and doesn’t pretend the rain outside matters more than whatever was happening between us on a Tuesday night in Chicago with all four hundred strangers around us having already forgotten why they got on that bus in the first place.
My Bus Adventures #7: Beginner’s Luck
My Bus Adventures #6: Standing Room
My Bus Adventures #5: Late Pass
My Bus Adventures #4: Straight Lines
My Bus Adventures #3: The Signal
My Bus Adventures #2: Window Seat
My Bus Adventures #1: The 9:40
Related posts:
My Bus Adventures #4: Straight Lines
My Bus Adventures #6: Standing Room
My Bus Adventures #2: Window Seat
My Bus Adventures #7: Beginner’s Luck
My Bus Adventures #3: The Signal
My Bus Adventures #5: Late Pass
My Bus Adventures #1: The 9:40
Colleen – chapter 03 – part-05
Colleen – chapter 02 – part-04
Colleen – chapter 03 – part-09
Colleen – chapter 03 – part-04
Colleen – chapter 01 – part-06
