by Rekha Valliappan
First they share a cigarette, then an inopportune argument on a square napkin, then a Dr. Pepper can. Jostling each other, waiting in line, inhaling lingering drifts of daily exhaust, heated fog from each other’s closeness, they would run in different circles. Their bus will be here any minute. See you she says with a sidelong glance as every other day, small mouth painted porcelain pink not cracking a smile.
He rearranges his headphones, straight up bluegrass humming notes, phantom mask back in place, imagining invisibility. He is meaning to capitulate. They have been meeting at the bus stop for a month, forthcoming with each encounter, her love letter from an unknown sender in his parka pocket.
The next week he’s carrying an inflatable raft in a zippered holdall, she a plastic bag that says it’s her medicine cabinet. He sniffs hers like a babushka might smelling freshly leaven bread, she running her fingers over his, scraping the edges, sleepy eyelids lost in a flotilla of several weak sniffs, like a wine taster before the first sip ritual.
He bounds, muscles rippling, a quick hop, a skip, bouncing the rhythm of their days, their shrinking ways. In-out-in! She’s a silhouette of smoke, the ghost of a glaze, making a feeble grab for his headphones with no batteries. She’s saying stuff, lost in wisps, spidery dandelion webs floating heavenwards. She disappears from view, fainter and farther. He blows a prosaic kiss breathing hard, eyes brilliant as shiny marbles. The bus has throttled, turns the bend, lost to view.
Rekha Valliappan is an internationally published award-winning multi-genre writer and poet. Her prose and poetry feature in various journals and anthologies including JMWW Literary Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Wild Word, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillwords, Litro Magazine, and elsewhere. Her work has earned nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
A-minor 