Fellow Traveller

Randy was getting used to seeing her on the bus every morning. She’d get on at Belleaire Turnpike and get off at Westchester Blvd., which was the stop right before his. Sometimes he would see her on the return trip home. She was hard not to notice, and since the bus was never crowded she often had a seat alone. Almost without fail some man would try to sit next to her, try chatting her up, and then go down in flames. She didn’t seem rude, she just wanted to read this book she always had. This had been going on for weeks, save a few days when one of them didn’t go to work. And all that time, it was always the same book.

He was between girlfriends, so he was intrigued by what he saw. She had long dark brunette hair, almost black, and she was alway dressed immaculately, usually in a skirt with flats, sometimes with tennis shoes. Once, she changed out of heels into flats on the bus, so she must have had a long walk to and from the bus stop. The fact that she was a reader was a good sign. His last lover didn’t like to read, and it was kind of a bummer.

It was inevitable that they would notice each other, and she would usually give a polite nod and smile; the type you give a fellow commuter. Nothing more or less implied. He made no move to sit by her and just listened to music or read his own book.

But today was different. When she came on the bus, she looked straight at him before taking her seat, and he began to wonder if it wasn’t a hint. Like, “What’s taking you so long to come sit by me.” Well, it would be pretty awkward if he got up from his seat now, and tried to sit next to her, only to be rebuffed, sitting there embarrassed while she ignored him or doing the walk of shame back to his old seat. He resolved to try it the next time she got on.

When the bus began approaching Bellaire, her stop, she turned around and looked back at him. She was holding the book so he could plainly see it. She got up, put the book conspicuously down on the seat next to her, and got off the bus. People were boarding, so he nearly fell trying to get to the book before anyone else sat there and picked it up. He slid into her empty seat and picked up the book.

The book was some kind of novel, about a champion show dog. It looked like a young adult title, but that didn’t strike him as strange. He had read several YA titles himself. A good story is a good story. He began thumbing through it. Obviously, she wanted him to have it so he would have a reason to talk to her the next day. He smiled; this was a very creative first move. He decided to read the introduction, so they would have something to talk about, but then he noticed one of the pages folded inward, marking her place. He opened to that page. It was a blank page between the introduction and the first chapter. However, on it was a scrawled a message, written with a fine point sharpie:

“My name is Darlene. Please help me.” Below that was a phone number.

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