Strangers

STRANGERS
ON HIS WAY BACK HOME from work Martin took a different bus than usual; he just felt like doing something different for a change. And so he took a different bus. He took an aisle seat in the middle, on the right--that is, on his right as he walked toward the back--beside a large woman. The bus, driving through the city, became more and more crowded with each stop. People were soon standing in the aisle. Martin, seated, looked out the window.
At one stop, a women about his own age--maybe a little younger--got on. He immediately took note of her. She was striking: dark hair, which he always preferred; but what caught his eye even more was the jawline, the cheek bone, the curve of nose--any one of which would have stopped him short; all three together sent him into a wild, erotic frenzy--inwardly.
But he was married, and so he remained in his seat and watched her--from a distance--make her way down the aisle toward him.
If only he could have read her mind: She saw him and had similar thoughts: deep-set eyes always did it for her; and there was something about his mouth, his upper lip, that she had great difficulty taking her eyes off. But she too was married, and so, after that first moment when they had made quick eye contact, after she had turned and begun walking toward him, she looked down at her feet, watching her feet, taking steps with her feet, making her way toward the back, and pretended to look out the window.
The evening was approaching; lights were coming on: street lights, shop lights, car lights, billboards.
Congestion in the aisle caused the woman to stop right next to Martin. Again they made a quick eye contact, a slight acknowledgment, a slighter recognition.
The bus continued through the city.
Martin, sitting, looked out one window; the woman, standing, looked out another. Another six stops and the bus began to thin out again. Two more and the older, larger woman sitting next to Martin excused herself.
"My stop," she said. And she got up to leave.
Martin stood up as well, to let her pass, and when he sat back down again, he looked at the woman with the nose and the cheekbones and jawline. He slid across to the wall side. They made eye contact; she smiled back, adjusted herself, and eased herself into the aisle seat.
After a moment he said, "Crowded tonight."
"Always is," she answered.
They both looked out the same window--for two minutes, quietly--while they each rehearsed their lines.
"My first time on this bus," he said. "I usually take the 15, all the way down Lincoln." He paused.
But the conversation had begun. They made small talk for a number of minutes, a number of blocks. But then, when she said that she worked at the bank on Third and Commerce, he felt his stomach drop--an instant of panic. That’s where his wife worked.
Martin decided--at least for the moment--against telling her this, but he wondered if they knew each other, wondered if they talked, wondered if they had ever talked about him, wondered what she thought of his wife--and a hundred other questions he had.
But all that could wait. For now, he was becoming more and more intrigued with this woman he barely knew but, with each new breath of conversation, was learning more about--how much they had in common, how much they shared: interests and hobbies: they both enjoyed bicycling (though she’d recently given it up), the theater, music, certain political issues. But their lives also seemed to have crossed in a number of other ways: They’d both been to Hawaii (on honeymoons), had both lived overseas once, and now they had both lived in this same city for the exact same number of years--as well as having lived in the same house all that time--never having moved once they had settled in. Further, they both had two children. And, as they talked more, he learned that her kids were just like his own--an older boy and a younger daughter.
They stopped in mid-sentence and looked at each other. This was more than coincidence. This was fate, Martin thought--maybe even a sign from God--all the while thinking to himself--irrationally, of course: Who cares if I’m already married. I want to know this woman; I need to know this woman.
And if he had been able to read her thoughts: Who cares if I’m already married. I need to know this man.
But Martin was nearing his stop, and he did not yet want to part company with this woman he had just met and whom, once departed and separated, he may never see again. What to do! What to do! He had to think of something. All other concerns left him.
Suddenly he blurted out, "My stop is the next one, but I. . ."
"My stop is the next one, too."
And they got off.
But as they stood in the growing darkness of evening, they seemed at a loss for words--now that they were finally alone together--caught in the awkwardness of it all. Cars sped by on the street; people walked by on the sidewalk; somewhere in the city a woman was sipping from a cup of coffee; somewhere in the city a robbery was taking place.
"Listen," they both said at the same time. And then they laughed.
He began. "Look, you’ve got to know this about me: I’m married, I have a family, children, a home, a career. Everything. But I don’t believe I have ever felt so connected with another human being in my entire life."
"I know, I know," she said. "Me too. I feel the same way; and I have a family too. A husband, career, home."
They began walking in one direction down the street, talking non-stop the whole while, connecting, transfixed, finding out more things about each other, more things to be excited about, more things to share, more things. At the first corner they stopped. They faced each other.
"This is absurd, I know," he began, "but I can’t just let something like this pass." He paused. She was about to speak, but he stopped her, and then paused again before continuing. He wanted to touch her, to take her into his arms, to tell her everything he had ever wanted to tell another human being. But what he said was, "Can I call you?"
She nodded, enthusiastically.
"I mean, can I have your phone number? I know it sounds crazy, but..."
And again she nodded, this time even more enthusiastically than before. She took out a small notepad from her purse and scribbled on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
He looked at it. He blinked. He wanted to shout. "But this is my telephone number!" he said. His hands dropped to his sides. They looked at each other; they stared at each other--a moment of comprehension, a moment of shared understanding, a grinding, horrifying epiphany of their own joint misery. He looked away, stared down the street to the house he called home, and then he said, "I think I forgot something; I think I forgot to pick up a paper. I’ll run back and get one. I’ll see you back at the house. I’ll just be a minute."