A Very Short Story

She sat next to me. On the bus.

She sneezed. I said, “Bless you.” She said, “Thank you.” Neither of us looked at each other, we never made eye contact. We only kept staring at our laps as the bus swayed and seized, weaved and crawled down the busy street.

To offer blessings seemed odd. The notion of blessings, today, now, seemed odd. I knew what the gesture meant, I had vague memories of medieval myths about sneezing and plague. The need for blessings to ward off evil. To wish good health even in the face of unimaginable disease. But I have no religion, no need to be religious. I guess, the urge was just too overwhelming. Too ingrained. She sneezed. I needed to say bless you. She thanked me. The bus moved on. We never made eye contact.

In the seat ahead of me a woman began to speak to no one at all. “I can’t stand you. No. No. No! I gave up. No. Oh, all right.” Silence.

I turned my head to the woman next to me and was surprised to see her eyeing me. We both averted our gazes. I had no sense of her except that she wore glasses. “Bless you,” I thought. Then the woman ahead of me said, “Noooooooo???” Holy shit! Listen this is my stop.” And the bus stopped and she got off.

The woman next to me wore brown. And I remembered a mole, on her lip or maybe her cheek. I wanted to see, but didn’t dare look. Then I looked and saw that she was looking at me again. I smiled. “Excuse me,” she said, face blank. “This is my stop.”

I got up and let her pass. Then I sat and watched her make her way to the front of the bus where she exited once the driver made it to the curb.

The bus moved on. I thought of blessings and holy shit. I thought of the traffic and the endless repetition of going to work then going home. I thought of cellphone conversations and stolen smiles and the trivialities of modern life. I thought how I hoped I’d see the sneezing woman again tomorrow. And maybe the next day. And maybe the next.