Where would she go?

January 24, 2002

Yesterday, I walked out of the theatre, head spinning with images of Paris and the wide puppy eyes and smile of Amelie only to be stopped by the bus lady.

She set her trash bag of laundry down to be able to converse better, and asked about the buses. Before I could answer, she asked, "Are you in a hurry?"

I admitted that I needed to go get dinner. She waved her hand, dismissing me, "Get out of here." As I walked away confused, I heard her say, "Selfish pig," under her breath.

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The first time I ran into the bus lady she stopped me to ask if I knew anything about the bus routes in the area. I told her that I wasn't familiar with them since I had just moved here. I could give her my best guess, however. She waved me away. "I don't want to talk to you. You sound weird."

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Yesterday, I walked out of the taquiera, head spinning with images of Paris, the wide puppy eyes and smile of Amelie, and the accusation that I was a selfish pig, when I ran into the bus lady again.

She asked if I knew the buses around here, and I was determined to give her a straight answer. Instead, she looked at me and asked, "Are you the same person from up the street?"

I hesitated. I could lie, but I really don't have any more clue about the bus routes as before, so I nodded. A look of fear flickered on her face, and she skittered away, back to her bag of laundry.

"I can give you what little help I can," I said, but the bus lady was busy spinning around, muttering to herself, and being frightened at weird selfish pigs.