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Why had he brushed his arm against mine? Was it an accident, or was he trying to communicate something? Some sign he saw I’d been upset and wanted me to know he cared?
It was a little over six months ago I first noticed him looking at me. I couldn’t recall if I’d ever seen him on the bus before then. He could’ve been getting on that same bus for years, or it could’ve been his first time. Either way, I’ve been aware of him on every journey since then.
I thought about him often, wondering what kind of life he lived. Did he have a girlfriend? Married with kids? Single? Was he happy or sad? Somewhere in between? Something in my gut told me he was a little bit lonely.
There was a hint of it in his eyes, a certain longing.
I, too, was lonely but not miserable. I was content enough with my life, mainly because the chaos and uncertainty of my childhood and adolescence had passed, and now, I had a reasonably solid roof over my head. I had the peace of mind knowing the rug wasn’t going to be pulled out from under me like it so often had been when I was young.
I waved hello to my neighbour, Siobhan, who was sitting on our other neighbour, Bob’s, front stoop. The two of them were sharing a cigarette and a cup of tea. Siobhan was in her sixties and Bob in his seventies. As far as I knew, they’d been friends and neighbours for a long time. They both waved back, and I slotted my key in the door before letting myself in.
I’d warmed to Siobhan almost immediately because, although we were decades apart in age, she was an upfront, no-nonsense sort of person. She could be grouchy at times, but under the surface, she had a kind, charitable heart. She lived upstairs, and I lived downstairs in the two-storey nineteenth century artisan dwelling split into two separate flats.
Sure, it was small and dated. There was a minor mould problem, and the plumbing could be better, but still, it was my sanctuary away from the world. My entire life, I’d wanted a place of my own, and now I had one, even if it was only rented and even if it was far from perfect.
I slipped off my shoes and headed into the kitchenette to put something on for dinner. I scanned the contents of my freezer and decided on a lasagne. I quickly threw together some salad for the side before I changed into pyjamas and turned on the latest audiobook I was listening to. I was currently on a big Nordic Noir kick and couldn’t get enough of those moody Scandinavian detectives and the gruesome, disturbing crimes they had to solve.
When the microwave pinged, signalling my dinner was ready, I quickly pulled the curtains, turned on the lamp, lit my lavender candle and settled in on the couch for a cosy listen while I ate. I wasn’t as engrossed in the story as I normally was, and that was because my mind kept drifting back to my bus journey home. How he’d looked at me, how close he’d been standing behind me, closer than he’d ever gotten before.
It seemed like he was concerned, but maybe that was just my wishful mind playing tricks. I sighed and pressed pause on the book. My chest was still full of butterflies at the memory of his arm brushing mine. It was such a small thing—tiny, really—but in my quiet world, it was monumental. Was he trying to provide some kind of comfort? A small connection to show he cared?
Probably not.
I was obviously getting way ahead of myself.
He only looked at me like he did because we got the same bus every day, and I was a familiar face to rest his eyes upon. I didn’t want that to be the case because although I was mostly content, a deep part of me I tried my best to keep small wanted someone to love. I’d spent years suppressing it. The problem was that part, though small, grew bigger all the time, and I was scared it might grow to consume me one day.
Wanting love was a scary prospect. When I was little, I wanted to be loved more than anything, but I never got what I wanted. I’d loved my mother, she was my entire world, but all I’d gotten in return was her disdain. In her eyes, I was the anchor dragging her down, and after a while, I’d grown a hard shell. I decided I wouldn’t try to love or be loved because loving led to pain and rejection.
No, it was far better to be self-contained. To rely only on myself and not seek comfort or acceptance elsewhere. This method had been working well for me for a long time. I’ve been able to keep to myself and avoid the possibility of the same kind of heartache my mother made me feel.
