These two get on. I think he’s looking at me, yet he’s talking so I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to answer or look back or look down or what. He’s being closely followed by this thing with flaming bluepurple hair, of course with lavender cat ears suspended in the stuff. She’s so pale. Paler than pale. Her fingernails look like they’ve been drawn on with regular blue pen ink, maybe 100 times over, and then smudged meticulously for hours. They make her look even paler. Her teeth clearly have to be in contrast with her translucence, so they’ve obediently turned a pale yellow. She has no makeup and a coroner’s black coat on, the kind zipped up to her throat. She is his girlfriend.
He’s not bad-looking, really, a bit chinless but with nice eyes. He does talk an awful lot though, I’m glad my headphones are droning on endlessly so that it’s just his lips moving all about. But WHY is SHE his girlfriend? He’s dressed normally too, the only oddity being a black messenger bag with thin white stripes. Doesn’t even qualify as an oddity, really. It occurs to me he may have an inferiority complex, or maybe she lets him tie her up. My eyes against my will keep darting up towards her unseemly hair. She really did do an expert job with the color, it’s so rich. I think for a second to tell her that her hair is nice, but that seems overstepping the goal of being nice I’ve been pretending I’ve set for myself lately. Clearly I would be lying, even she’d know it. How could someone who looks like me like her hair? Not that I’m so much above her. I probably look terrific now with my second-day bob haphazardly in a makeshift ponytail. And my tiny, dry hands. With their tiny rings. And my cracked ipod. I digress. My eyes move down to her legs (she’s standing right in front of me, and everyone else on the bus looks gray and drab compared to this ghost with her soda pop bangs). My brain is working ferociously trying to understand why he can’t get a better-looking chick. Yes, looks aren’t everything but no, not really, you don’t realistically see people going for personality alone. Anyway her legs are clothes in skinny jeans (skinny legs) and converse sneakers. The legs aren’t bad, really, I’m beginning to think more and more. I like how they move about, with an air of playful defiance. If I concentrate just on her legs, they swish and bend independent of her body, it’s quite pretty. I forget the preposterous upper half, and look how the two penguin feet move into each other and out, one blue jean knee bends backwards to steady the skinny but cute, straight calf and lower leg on the rubber topmost platform. Then the leg swings forward instead, and crashes lightly with the dark grey, wider, more awkward knee of the boyfriend. I look back up the length of the impossible black jacket, to the plain as beans face and find it leaning on his shoulder. She looks more content not only with her surroundings but within herself that I rarely ever feel for all my rancor and derision. I fumble with my bags and shove at the yellow tape on the door to let me out at my stop.
Story about my encounter on a busride home