One.
You notice a tall, dark, homeless man approaching people at the bus stop for spare change. Everyone before you shakes their head no, most people don’t even look up from their newspapers or magazines. When he gets to you, the last in line, you look him in the eye and smile (you are from the midwest). You pull a fistful of quarters from your pocket — laundry money — there is so much change that he has to cup his hands to receive it all. He leans down. You think maybe he is going to kiss your cheek as a thank you. You decide you can handle this if it happens. Instead, he licks your cheek like an ice cream cone, up and down. He twirls his tongue around maybe three or four times. Maybe ten, maybe a hundred. He finishes and drifts on down the street, your laundry money jingling in his coat pocket. You say nothing, do nothing, look nowhere. You do not wipe his saliva from your cheek. Your entire face feels like it is scorched from the inside out. The bus comes, you take a seat and open your book. You feel eyes on you. And even though you can smell the tall man’s spit, you do not touch your face until you get home, thirty minutes later. You are learning.
Two.
It is standing room only and hot and humid inside the bus, but as you move further into the vehicle, you see one empty aisle seat next to an older man with pale skin and thinning hair. It smells like a urine-soaked wool sock in here, you think, as you sit and put your umbrella on the floor between your feet. Misery mists off everyone. When you’ve been seated for a few seconds, you notice that the older man with pale skin and thinning hair in the seat next to you is wearing a dark green rain poncho. But not pants. You act like this is no big deal. You pull out your book and pretend to read while side-eyeing the man to determine if he is wearing anything under his poncho. After a few minutes he pulls the yellow cord to signal for the next stop. He stands. You turn your knees into the aisle so he has clear passage. Just as he is almost clear of you, the bus driver slams on the breaks. The man falls across your lap, as if waiting for a spanking, his poncho yanked up to reveal that the anything is in fact nothing.
Three.
Your husband is saying something about the movie you just saw, but you aren't listening. You are focussed on the woman sitting across from you. She is in her sixties. Or fifties, perhaps seventies, it’s hard to tell. She is dressed smartly. Skirt, hose, low heels, clip on earrings. She looks like she just had her hair done, her dark curls perfectly coiled. Or maybe she got a new wig. She looks like she is expected somewhere. If this were Sunday you would assume she was heading to church. Balanced on her knees is a plastic cover that a comforter is packaged in at the store. It is jammed full with her belongings, like a translucent suitcase. You can see clothing, makeup, jewelry, a teddy bear’s face presses against the zipper. She is crying quietly. You nudge your husband in the side with your elbow and say to him, ask her if she is alright. You feel shy and he is good with old people. He crosses the aisle and you watch him sit next to her and sweetly ask her if she is alright. It’s my birthday, she says. Happy Birthday, your husband says and you love him a little bit more than you did a few seconds ago. She says, I got kicked out of my apartment today. He simply sits with her and listens. When your stop comes, he wishes her good luck and happy birthday again. You walk home without talking.