Wednesday, October 20, 2004 7:23:53 AM
Once, more years before, she had been on a long bus ride from Mexico City to Oaxaca.
Amid the dust and the night the bus slowed to pick up a group at the side of the road. The first men were dirty and wet from the earlier evening’s rains. She pretended to sleep as she watched the men pass down the isle. The last man onto the bus was a young man below the brim a dropping hat. He dropped into the seat next to her.
He was too big for the small bus seat, his knees pushing into the back of the seat ahead of them. As the bus pulled back onto the road, tossing everyone hard to the right, he nearly fell into her lap. What ever he had said didn’t sound like Spanish, but in the warmth of his large brown eyes and the tilt of his broad face, translated an apology.
Something in his gentle manner was magnificent. His first words to her had been said with such concentration on her, his whole body and being focused for that instant in a pungent, fluid, familiarity. She had felt suddenly shy and simple. She was sure she had smiled stupidly as she pointed to her self and said, “Angela”. He pronounced her name beautifully. And though she repeated his several times, trying to forge the syllables with her too thick tongue, she forgot it immediately afterward.
The smell of the wet wool of his jacket was overpowering and was the last thing she thought about before going to sleep.
When she woke the jacket was over top of her and her head on his chest. His arms were wrapped around her and she wondered what it would be like to be this man’s wife. Would each night be this warm and simple – separated by language, tightly embracing to make up for it? Could that be enough for her? Would she follow him when she got off the bus?
She entertained herself with these thoughts as he slept beside her and the sun came up over her shoulder.
When he finally did get off in San Christobal or one of those cities in the south, she kissed him gently like a wife would her husband and ached as the bus pulled away.
She would always describe it as the single most honest expression of what transpires between a man and a woman. Simple and uninhibited by words, truthful and not convoluted by concepts, intimacy completely expressed.
Here sitting far above the a city they could no longer see, the ticking of the jeeps engine as the metals cooled, and in the silence of the forest, she was recreating the night on the bus by not adding anything to their silence.
Amid the dust and the night the bus slowed to pick up a group at the side of the road. The first men were dirty and wet from the earlier evening’s rains. She pretended to sleep as she watched the men pass down the isle. The last man onto the bus was a young man below the brim a dropping hat. He dropped into the seat next to her.
He was too big for the small bus seat, his knees pushing into the back of the seat ahead of them. As the bus pulled back onto the road, tossing everyone hard to the right, he nearly fell into her lap. What ever he had said didn’t sound like Spanish, but in the warmth of his large brown eyes and the tilt of his broad face, translated an apology.
Something in his gentle manner was magnificent. His first words to her had been said with such concentration on her, his whole body and being focused for that instant in a pungent, fluid, familiarity. She had felt suddenly shy and simple. She was sure she had smiled stupidly as she pointed to her self and said, “Angela”. He pronounced her name beautifully. And though she repeated his several times, trying to forge the syllables with her too thick tongue, she forgot it immediately afterward.
The smell of the wet wool of his jacket was overpowering and was the last thing she thought about before going to sleep.
When she woke the jacket was over top of her and her head on his chest. His arms were wrapped around her and she wondered what it would be like to be this man’s wife. Would each night be this warm and simple – separated by language, tightly embracing to make up for it? Could that be enough for her? Would she follow him when she got off the bus?
She entertained herself with these thoughts as he slept beside her and the sun came up over her shoulder.
When he finally did get off in San Christobal or one of those cities in the south, she kissed him gently like a wife would her husband and ached as the bus pulled away.
She would always describe it as the single most honest expression of what transpires between a man and a woman. Simple and uninhibited by words, truthful and not convoluted by concepts, intimacy completely expressed.
Here sitting far above the a city they could no longer see, the ticking of the jeeps engine as the metals cooled, and in the silence of the forest, she was recreating the night on the bus by not adding anything to their silence.
posted by hawthorne at 7:23 AM
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