This is my entry in San Diego Momma's very cool weekly writing exercise. The photo is hers; the song below accompanies the picture & my story.
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Guy sits in the same seat every morning; he's already there when I get on at the Lovejoy stop, staring out the windows opposite the door. I call him Guy because I don't know his name - no one ever speaks to him, he makes no phone calls, never has a magazine with revealing subscription info - and also because he's pretty regular looking. I can't remember a time when Guy wasn't there, and I've been taking this bus across town for a year now.
Guy sits in the same seat every morning; he's already there when I get on at the Lovejoy stop, staring out the windows opposite the door. I call him Guy because I don't know his name - no one ever speaks to him, he makes no phone calls, never has a magazine with revealing subscription info - and also because he's pretty regular looking. I can't remember a time when Guy wasn't there, and I've been taking this bus across town for a year now.
Some days I watch him and wonder what he's thinking. He sits so still, staring out the windows. His expression rarely changes; once I saw him smirk but when I followed his gaze I couldn't tell why, and he had gone back to a plain stare by the time I looked at him again.
I don't know where Guy goes everyday because I get off before him, and he's never on the bus when I head home. Last fall, I tried to interact with him by asking if he had a pen I could borrow. He glanced at my hand on his arm before slowly turning his face toward mine, shaking his head. I wasn't sure if he was answering my query or telling me not to touch him.
Today, Guy came into my store. At first I couldn't figure out why he seemed so familiar. I walked over to offer assistance, smiling as if we were old friends. Guy looked at me blankly, shook his head. He picked up a copy of the free newspaper near the door and left.
