I started to cry today when the waiter popped the cork from a wine bottle.

The lights swirled tightly around me, little pin-pricks of illumination. Laughter, voices, humming in my ears, and I'm so afraid and trapped. Fragmenting. He slid the bottle back, almost tenderly, funnelling pale gold wine-- liquid gold-- into the goblet. I stared in fascination, tears sliding, undoing me, loosing my skin.

Never mind why I was crying, it just struck me as surreal.

Today’s suitably eccentric dialogue on the bus, between me and Massage Therapist Boy. Who, incidentally wore a blue grease-monkey suit and looked like he needed to form a speaking acquaintance with cleaning under his nails before he became “a chiiirooopractoor for a beeg sports team.”

Massage Therapist Boy: So tell me ‘bout this outfit. [gestures at my navy blue skirt, pleated, plain blue t-shirt, sheer navy blue stockings and sneakers]

Me: Oh, it’s just my weird fashion sense. Or lack therof.

MSB: Nah, I like it. You know, if your skirt was a leetle shorter and if you had a black tank top on. . . got rid of your braids, let your hair be loose. . . you’d look like Britney Spears.

Me: . . . [Affix wobbly grin]

Truck driver next to me: [Stifled laugh]

So, kids, the jury’s still out on this. What do you think?

I sat on the hard concrete bench waiting for the bus to rattle in. A new issue of Vogue, perfume floating up to me as I turned the pages. The Eyre Affair in my enormous black bag, my little poetry notebook in my hand. You can tell the university students, we all hold our I.D. cards nervously. We're all waiting, I think, for someone to deny us transport so we can be vindicated for our fears.

I leaned back, thinking about sneaker-Manolos (Kara!) and The Nanny (Nita!). A woman settled down next to me with the rustle of a plastic bag. I saw cellophane in her hands. She wore faded clementine fabric stretched tight over her pregnant belly. Her face was a little worn, the freckles a little too bright against that pale skin. She fumbled with her bag for a moment, her fingernails digging into an orange. I looked down at myself, at my Thursday black pants and striped grey-and-white shirt. My hair, loosely tied in a spiky, unkempt bun.

Two very unheroic thoughts came to me.

I'm glad that's not me.

and

When is the bus coming?

I have to write (one) (mere) essay on the Scarlet Letter, and then I am done, done, done, done. . . and I'm going to read. Read and work and sleep and clean. . . and it will be beautiful.

(I bought a 9 3/4 Platform journal today. On discount. For writing fanfic ideas in, you know?)