(no subject)

[minervasolo]

Touched

I drop my wallet. Right at the bus stop, right as I'm about to get on the bus, I drop my wallet. My open wallet.

Fuck.

Down there, on the edge of the pavement, scrabbling in the gutter and on the flagstones, in and out the legs, I make made grabs at my money. There's not a lot of it. I'm catching the fucking bus, for God's sake. Of course there's not much. Everything is feet and legs and pushchairs and walking sticks. And, occasionally, another hand. Just now and then, someone bends over and helps, but no one else is down in it, squatting in the slush, scrabbling for the last few coppers because without them I can't catch the fucking bus I never wanted to be on anyway.

I think I've got it all, but I'm not sure. Most everyone is on the bus now, but the driver's understanding. At least I'm not surrounded by feet now. Somehwere behind me a hand appears and presses the final coin into mine, brushing the back of it becuase I can't get my wrist to turn over quick enough. The owner of the hand is on the bus and sitting before I can even stand up. Damn cold makes me stiff like that.

I pay the driver and sit down. It's not a long journey, but it's a bus journey. What with all the stopping and starting, it takes fucking forever. Buses aren't so bad, I guess. You can switch off. Empty mind. Like some kinda zen meditation.

Ommm...

My hand's cold. It's not that cold a day, but there are these bars of ice on my hand. Where that last fucker touched me. Hadn't realised, but damn his hands were cold. Her hands. Fuck, I don't even know which. Would have at least said thank you, if they'd held on just a second longer. Hell, maybe I'd have offered them some gloves.

Fuck that's cold. How come I can still feel it? It stings, a bit. like a scald, but, well, fucking freezing. How can a person be that cold? Bad circulation or some shit. I rub my hands together, contemplate blowing on them but that's what tramps do on street corners, and I'm not that poor yet. Where are my hands now? Ah, right, trying to find they ways into my pockets. Damned if these trousres have pockets, and now the bitch next to me is giving me odd looks and pressing closer to the window.

I just hold my hands in my lap, and try to zone out. Normally I just stare out the window, but I was last one on, wasn't I, and there weren't any window seats left. Which leaves me with passnegers to stare at, which is always a dangerous occupation unless you're right at the back, because god knows when one of the fuckers is gong to start staring back. It's not some eyes-meet-across-a-crowded-room scenario, it's a fucking bus. Congratulations, instead of your one true love you've won the booby prize of your very own stalker!

I'm near the back, it's okay. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to spot cold hands person. I guess I can't feel it any more. Funny, because I can. Like, it's not cold, but it tingles, like when someone waves there hand over your shoulders and you can feel it, even though they're not touching, just because you know their hands are there. Freaky. Creepy. But it's there, and part of me wants to brush it off nd rub my hands together and make it go away, and part of me wants it to stay. Because it's freaky and weird and tingly and not unpleasent.

So now the guessing games. It's not cold, but there's a few wearing gloves, so cut them out. Heh, let's cut the old nd the ugly out too, because wouldn't it be nice if it was that stunning girl staring out the window near the front?

I can't do that. I want to pretend to myself it was some supermodel babe being nice, and I can't. Because the reason my hand isn't cold any more is because my insides are. Like I've breathed in dry ice, or my heart is pumping, I don't know, liquid nitrogen or whatever. Cold where it hurts, empty and dead and heavy. And I can't think about this person being that pretty dumb thing. I want to find this person now. Need to find them. Need to grab those cold hands and warm them, make that person warm. Make this fucking cold and dead feeling go away, but keep the tingling because it's kinda nice, all things said and done.

So I look around again. There's so many people on this bus. The old, who always look lonely, even when they're smiling and chatting to each other. Would any of them pick up a coin for a young punk like me? Bet they couldn't even bend over far enough. And those kids, those small kids, so close to the ground. I don't want to think about that. Kids are hot and sweaty things. Can't bear to think one of those runts would have this cold heart, those cold hands. 'slike seeing those street kids. You don't look because it hurts to.

It's gotta be someone like me. Not one of those parents, too mixed up with the kids. And not some fucking suit frowning at me over his newspaper. Or her newspaper. They're all fucking suits, you know? In the money. And it's not as though i'm really that outlandish. Just scruffy. You know, a student. Can't afford shit, basically, and I'm about to lose my flat and I had pigeon for dinner yesterday because it seemed like a real good idea at the time, and it saved me a bit of cash. Think I was drunk. Someone else's booze, of course.

There's a few more, like me, on the bus. All students live on public transprt, you know that? And the fucks with parents who bought them a car, well, they're just a smaller bus, aren't they? So I look at these people, these guys and gals. All zoned out. All in that zen place we go when we're on a bus. And I can't pick one. There's nothing to chose between them. Maybe one of them's got the cold hands and the warm heart, warm anough to pick up change from the slush for a stranger.

Not thinking logically enough. I got on the bus, and everyone was sitting. So, right, this person must have sat near the front, because they'd never have made it all the way down, would they? So lets say front few rows. Well, cutting out the suits and the kids and the old people, there's just one left. That hot chick again.

Really her? She's sitting sideways, sees me looking. Looks away. Not the best of signs.

Fuck, nearly my stop. They fine you if you go too far, and those drivers have a fucking good memory for who bought what ticket.

Maybe I could drop my wallet again? That person might help, again, and i could thank them this time. Maybe not hold their hand, but a thank you, that'd warm them, right?

But my pride forbids me. I don't wanna be a klutz, and there's hardly enough in the wallet to make it worthwhile dropping it. So I walk down the bus, swaying with it as it turns the final corner, a practised, fluid sway, and lean on the pole next to the door while the driver fumbles for the button.

Is this how it feels, missing a golden oppurtunity? Like leaving Scarlet O'Hara behind, or something. My hand tingles. Somewhere on this bus is a person I want to take in my arms. The cold space inside me tells me that. Looking back at the rows of blank faces, stepping through the juddering doors, I couldn't tell you which person. Just the one with cold hands. Poor circulation, probably, nothing to do with loneliness or warm hearts.

But it's nice to pretend. The bus growls away, and someone on it is a nice person, who touched my life. It's not some fucking christmas story, with fresh white snow; just late January brown slush. it's not some fucking love story, with eyes meeting and love at first sight; it's just one stranger doing a favour for another, a favour that cost the first nothing. So maybe one day I'll drop my wallet again, or they'll drop theirs, and we'll touch and just know, and within a year we'll be married with the first kid on the way. It's nice to pretend, and it fills the heavy hole inside.

I rub my hands together, brushing away the last of the tingling sensation, and set off towards the apartment.



There was far more swearing in that than I expected there to be. And I never quite decided whether the speaker was male or female. But, yeah, that's what I ended up thinking about and planning to write in English, after Roz picked my hand off my book to see what page we were on, and her fingers were effing freexing!

Comments

[almighty-frog.livejournal.com]

::giggles:: Funny fic! Me likies. Sounds more male than female, though. Just something about the tone. O.o