crazy hips

She used to catch the same bus—the one that was supposed to pick us up at 7:10 a.m., but it usually arrived ten minutes late. I hadn’t seen her lately, so I figured she was on the bus that came a half hour later. This turned out to be what happened one morning when my bus didn’t show up, and a different driver, who I assumed was the 7:40 a.m. driver, pulled up in its place. Nobody on this next bus knew why our usual guy never showed. The next few stops were met with grumbles from boarding passengers wondering why the transit company was so unreliable. This poor driver didn’t have an answer to please any of them.

We made our way slowly through the hills of Oakland; the traffic multiplied as time got closer to 8. At the stop under the freeway just before heading to the old quarry, I looked down and saw her standing there in line like everyone else, waiting to board. She had a big teal bag carrying what I assumed was her old iBook, and she was wearing a dark brown blazer—was it corduroy?—and a shapely, dark denim skirt hitting just below her knees. She isn’t tall, so when she climbed up the steps onto the bus, I couldn’t immediately see her head over the first few seats. She walked down the aisle toward me, stopping three rows ahead, but on the left side of the bus, dropping her bag on the window seat. Her hands reached up to adjust the air—it was cold outside in the mornings at that time of year, to where you can see your breath, so the buses tend to slam everyone with the sweat-inducing heater—but I guess her vents weren’t working because she ended up moving to the row before mine.

Those adorable freckles shifted as the corners of her mouth pulled up into a smile just for me. She adjusted the square-rimmed glasses that almost slid off her little pointed nose before sitting down on the aisle seat rather than the window, even though it looked that today’s bus would be filled to capacity. Usually this bothers me: passengers who take the outside seat on public transport when obviously someone is going to have to climb over you to get to the window seat, and then the person in the aisle looks at you like you’re some moron who inconveniences them for having to accomodate someone else.

But she is different.

She shouldn’t be, because we are all the same 9-to-5-ers—or rather, 8:30-to-5:30, in my case—who all want to be able to sit on our own without sharing the seat with some other commuter, but I personally leave the aisle seat open just so nobody has to ask for the other seat. It’s just easier.

This girl, though—this charming girl with the crazy hips that appear perfect for child-bearing, and her head full of auburn curls highlighted with gold, not quite shoulder-length but past the chin, and that devastating smile of hers—completely dissolves the assumption that she might be somewhat of a snob. I thought she would be rolling her eyes at my sometimes green, sometimes red, currently blue hair and my holey, fading black hoodie and jeans that are tearing at my heels from being dragged under my Converse knock-offs. But she doesn’t turn her nose up at me, nor does she peer down at me like I am some lowly bus-riding idiot.

Now that she was closer I could see that she was wearing a white top under her coat. It has slanting, thin black stripes rather than horizontal ones. She sat down and through the seats I saw she had upgraded her iBook to a white MacBook. She reached up to test the air vents above these seats. I heard a breath escape her mouth as a long, pleased sigh, and her fingers started clicking away on the keys of her notebook.

She is cute. She does not have to share her row with anyone else, and it is okay.

She smiled at me.

Sure, she probably smiles at everyone, and I have an idea that a number of her colleagues share the same enamored perspective. My head was yelling me to say something—anything—just to retain her attention even if for only another second. Even something stupid like, “I see you have a MacBook. I have a MacBook, too,” or, “Want to get a drink later?” I guess what I really wanted to ask was, “Can we be friends?”

My mouth opened slightly, but the words never came out. Instead I closed my mouth again and leaned back into my seat, watching the rest of the green hills roll by as our bus crawled through the rest of the East Bay traffic into the city.

If only I could be less creepy and more approachable…