Hector is behind the counter, tossing bits of chicken. As I approach he turns
and reaches for the coffee pot. “Steven,” he says and pours then puts the cup
by me. “Thanks Hector,” I say. I slide him a bill, he slides it back, and then I
scan the room. The window tables are full of spinsters (15), with 3, no, 4 men
sitting amongst them, meek and silent pets. Apart from them, at other tables,
are my passengers: the forgetful old woman, the amorous couple (she on his
lap), the bearded man with the smug face. There they are. But she is not. And
there are 9, 10, 11 seconds when I imagine her in the trunk of some man’s car.
Darkness and the smell of oil. Her misery ending all wrong.
Then it is the scene in Taxi Driver where Cybil Shepherd floats in slow motion
while De Niro says, “They... Cannot... Touch... Her...”
She is perfect. Untouchable. But nonetheless, so sad. I don’t know if I can
make her happy. If I have the words.
I step forward. She approaches. Then sits quickly down.
She is next to the bearded man whose eyes are wide with surprise, as mine
must be as they close.
I count the panicked beats of my heart. The pulse of pain in my chest.
When, at 20, I open my eyes, she is no longer kissing him. They are kissing
each other.
I watch their lips for many seconds that I do not count. Then I go back to the
bus and sound the horn so loud that people spill their drinks. I start the
engine and watch the passengers scurry to the bus. All except Dominique and
him, who 10, 15 seconds later, almost skip between the sliding doors and here.
At me they do not even glance. I am less than these spots of rain.
It cannot be me who says, “Next stop, Stockton.” Who swings the bus out into
the road with barely a look in the mirror. But even that is enough. The two of
them are entwined. His hands on her, his lips on her. This man who knows