M/S-I: The Bridge
I was five, and it was the time of year when Spring started to get sticky. I boarded the Community-era bus with my Grandmother like we had done countless times. I think we were on our home from buying groceries; it was early afternoon. The bus was approaching a bridge and made a stop. Another grandmother and her grandson got on. She pulled him onto her lap.
I sat in the window seat next to my Grandmother, looking out the window as the bus passed over the bridge. I felt him before I saw him. The man sitting in the row behind was staring at me through the gap between the window and my seat. My eyes followed his hand as it touched mine, then they darted to his face. He was still staring, smiling, stroking - his fingers covering my entire hand.
I pulled my hand away, and my face started to feel hot. I glanced at my Grandmother, who was looking away. The other grandmother got off the bus with her grandson; we had reached the other end of the brige. "Why did she only take the bus for one stop?" I asked, trying to hide the shame I felt. "She was probably tired," my grandmother replied.