The Bus Stop

The Bus Stop

As I held you, I knew I never wanted to let you go. I honestly don't remember when I wrapped my arms around you and pulled you into a warm embrace, but I remember that it was I who took the initiative. Feeling your frail body shiver against the cold wind, I had no choice but to be your shield from the world. I remember feeling with satisfaction that you never tried to resist, welcoming the embrace and how you lay your head on my chest and I let my head rest upon yours and took one of the greatest risks in my life by accepting the sinful act of letting the smell of your dark curls fill my nostrils. I suddenly lifted my head, what was I doing? I had no right to do this, and the bitter taste of disappointment replaced that of hour-old beer, I said something even as I realized that my hands were running up and down your back, trying to excuse myself by saying that I was "only trying to keep you warm," if you didn't believe me, lied like a master that night, when you said with warmth in your voice, "I know" and despite the fact that your face was buried in my jacket I distinctly felt as though you were smiling when you had spoken. I had continued my (to me) daring embrace, continuing to run my hands over your back and shoulders. If you had been able to see my face you would have never doubted how highly I thought of you, and had our eyes met you would have seen my undying love for you, you could have seen how I not-so-secretly worship you and that which you do.

When we first met, though it feels like a lifetime ago, I wasn't the person I am today. I never even gave you as much as a casual look; you were just some know-nothing with whom I made meaningless small-talk until the line in front of us grew smaller, and if it hadn't been because of where you had said you came from, I would've never remembered you for even a short moment after I left that day. At the first day of school, I wanted to find you, the person about whom I knew the most, but I couldn't and as the weeks went by I had formed friendships where you had no place. Suddenly, you followed me. It was nothing serious, I knew your name and that you were in my class, but the fact that we had met before had been forgotten. I began talking to you again and with an unconscious effort you managed to make that very friendship fracture and when I watch it today, it seems dying. Instead, you - the person who followed behind us like a dog - have become a person I can't believe I could ever live without, and in fact I doubt I ever have.

You made me a new person, freeing me of the chains of oppressive deceit I had forged for myself, and allowed me to open my heart and share my weakness without exploiting me, as I would have expected from anyone else (and not faulted them the slightest for it). You consoled me and guided me out of the pain and misery I had made my home, and just by being yourself you showed me another path to walk, one I desperately struggle to stay on, though my feet sometimes lead me back to the beginnings of the other.

I remember when the bus came, I almost felt sorry, I knew that getting you out of the cold was the right thing to do, but I would no longer be able to embrace you. As we sat down in the bus, you seemed almost too small and frail to be the strong-willed, loudmouthed girl I knew you to be, and your weakness prompted me once again to protect you, though from what I am unsure. I placed my left arm around you and letting it rest on your shoulder, but not only did you not seem to mind, but you actually seemed to appreciate it; perhaps, like a dog, you desired the physical contact because of the unity it represented or perhaps you were better at hiding your feelings than I was. We spoke at length, though I forget the topic, until we had to press the stop button. You said that you couldn’t reach the button because of my arm, and I knew it was in the way, but instead of removing it, I took your arm by the hand and gently led it upwards towards the button and used it to press the button. We got out one-by-one, it was troublesome to maintain contact while exiting the bus anyway, and besides we’d both go inside your home in a moment. We crossed the deserted road and you unlocked the door to the house and let me inside. I somehow felt as though being here tonight was something quite different from having been here on any other evening, it was your birthday and not only had I been the only one you had invited to celebrate you today, but you had actually invited me to come with you, rather than just allowing me to do so. We sat down in the living room and talked, and (for some reason) I untied those boots of yours even as you asked me what the hell I was doing. I admitted having no reason for doing so, but I didn’t discontinue my work before it was finished. Your hands had been cool at this point, and I had warmed them with my own, and as we sat there, with your hands in mine, it dawned on me just what I was doing, and again I said the hollow excuse about simply warming your hands, which you again allowed to pass uncommented. When my own hands grew cool of having vainly tried to warm yours, I had no excuse to continue my efforts, and I let go of your hands. At some point, you went into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea, though you ended up making coffee instead, and I followed you leading me to meet one of your friends; a student of medicine worried about her upcoming exam. I was almost surprised that this person was the only one who didn’t seem to register that there was something between you and I, even if most (perhaps even including you) couldn’t readily identify it or accept it. I was probably too obsessed with this apparent oversight and finding an explanation for it to have occurred to have made a good impression upon her, but do not worry, I intend to make it up to everyone.

Your hyper-flexible joints never cease to amuse me, whether they are on your arm, leg or hand. When I began my almost habitual studies of just how flexible they were, you seemed quite nervous, perhaps you feared me to be trying to get a peek at something you didn’t intend me to, or perhaps it was simply because any of the nuns upstairs would likely have you disciplined in some manner were they to see us out of context. How long we spent playing this ‘game’ that we have steadily been developing, with me feeling every bone and muscle in your arms and legs, and you expressing a slight irritation yet doing nothing else to indicate that I stop, and me pulling you over to me every so often, I cannot remember, but I remember we had just finished one of our grapple-like fights (for your bus pass), ending with me handing it to you when it had (once again) become clear that you stood no chance of winning and you sitting back in your chair with the pass. As you had sat down you had forgotten what women who wears skirts regularly remember, to correct your skirt before sitting down. This way your entire right leg and buttock was clearly visible, as well as the line of your underwear, and shamelessly you uttered the words “Well, now this is cold” patting your bare buttock, I was about to answer but the fact that you seemed so uncharacteristically unconcerned with your appearance had robbed me of words. “And no, you don’t get to warm it! ” you said with indignation, almost as had I uttered the suggestion that didn’t occur to me until you had said it, “I wasn’t planning to. Actually, I was about to say that I sadly wouldn’t be warming that for you, V” I answered you, and while I have to admit I hadn’t actually been about to say it, it was how I was feeling, I didn't want to feel you up like some stupid whore. “Well, good… can you imagine what the nuns would’ve said?” As the situation painted itself before me, I smiled broadly, “Well, if they saw me sitting with my hand on your ass, under your skirt no less, and I couldn’t come up with a better explanation than I was trying to warm you, I think they might have a thing or two to say, yes.”

That was how the evening had ended.