Number of times the woman with hair you really have to call golden (whose
name, according to the manifest, is Dominique Stitz) has taken the bus this
month: 9, which isn’t necessarily accurate, because she could have taken it on
either the 3 days I was off sick, or the 2 I was in court.
Number of times we have spoken: 9. When I take her ticket, she says, “Thank
you,” then gets on the bus. I have never seen her smile, laugh, show any sign
her life is not a miserable, long tunnel.
And sadness looks worse on a face like hers. It’s like a contradiction. This is a
face you wantto be happy, one that could make even the most callous
stranger— someone who robs the poor box; mocks the disabled; sleeps with a
married woman while her husband drives a fifty-five hour week —stop her in
the street and ask, Whatever is the matter?
Number of miles to Modesto: 20.
Number of words I will say to Dominique as she climbs off the bus: 19. “I
hope you don’t mind me asking but— Would you like to have a cup of coffee
with me?”
Number of words she will reply: 4. As in, “Yes, I’d like that.” Or 3, as in,
“Sure, why not?” And contrary to popular belief, there isn’t a number, like 7,
or 13, that’s always lucky or not. It depends on the person and the situation.
There are definitely trends, for sure, but nothing’s cast in stone. For example,
while 9 has mostly been bad for me— I met my ex-wife on September 9th;
there are 9 letters in her name, and 9 letters in his name —there are also 9
letters in Dominique, this is the 9th time we’ve met, and we’re on Highway 99.
So while it’s good to be aware of these things, you shouldn’t let them freak
you out. Not unless you want to end up like my dad (who stays home on
days that contain a ‘3’).
Number of miles to Modesto: 15. I do not expect much. There will be no hugs
or kisses. We are just going to talk. After our names, we’ll say where we’re
from, what we do for a living (as a joke, I’ll say I’m a lawyer). Then, after an