Laissez les Bons Temps...

Yesterday I fell in love with a man on the bus. I imagine his name was Robert.

I sat next to Robert because he had his legs crossed and I like a man who crosses his legs like a girl. Of course he was not a girl but a man, older, maybe sixties? I don’t know. I never really looked at his face simply because you don’t look people in the face on the bus; you look at their shoes (sensible), their newspaper (Wall Street Journal), their fingernails (clean).

Barely visible beneath the cuff of his shirt I spotted a bracelet on his wrist, the kind woven with embroidery thread? This is what got me, that bracelet. Purple, gold, green, because I could imagine this man maybe named Robert (or James) cutting a rug at Mardi Gras. Possibly in New Orleans but probably in his living room, I felt certain that when he kicks off his oxfords he smiles as if he’s got nothing left to hide.

Mynamar Protests Turn Deadly. I watched him read, turn the page, snap his newspaper crisp and creaseless. Private Sector Sheds Jobs. I thought I had gotten so good at this, cutting my eyes to the side like a man sneaking a glance at the gap of a woman’s button-down. Just my eyes, no turn of the head, EU Probes Aid for Irish Bank. His wrist was thin like mine, but then he shifted, sighed, rattled his newspaper annoyed, and I knew that he did not love me back.

Still, I slept with him. What can I say? I’m a slut on the bus. Something about the hum, the sway, I did not mean to but the next thing I knew we had driven over the metal plate on the northbound span of the Golden Gate Bridge and I woke up, slack mouth open and dry.

Oh, Robert. Just promise me you’ll keep dancing.