THE WOMAN IN THE BUS

He was on his way to the hospital when he suddenly saw her, radiant. She got on the bus in the exact moment that he turned his head, standing out among the sad passengers and the grey tonalities of the bus that seemed more like a battlefield in that moment; in which encounters are fought through uncomfortable actions, sharp smiles and incisive stares. It was there. The fear, the stupefaction and the genuine happiness that invaded him made him jump to rushed conclusions to convince himself that what was happening was indeed real. Their stares met the moment she got on the bus, in the exact moment he turned his head perhaps by instinct or by accident, turning his gaze away from the window and cutting short the memory from when he was five years old with his family, taking a bus for the first time, he realized the joy it brought him to look out the window, how he was leaving entire landscapes behind as the bus advanced, like he was abandoning them, or adventuring into an unknown world. During his life he evoked that same memory whenever he had to move beyond where he had already been, thinking gleefully that from that point forward everything was new. But all of that was distant now, when he recognized that stare everything seemed to shake. She crossed the interior of the bus while he watched her closely from his seat, without knowing how to act. She climbed the short steps to the back of the bus and took a seat in front of him, and without saying a word she stated to cry silently. He froze, and a familiar sensation ran through his body. What was happening? He had no clue. He stayed silent for less than a minute, projecting all the possible outcomes in his head. He remembered several memories and then left them behind just like the buses from his childhood. It was less than a minute, but for him it was too much. She was there, in front of him. Uncountable times he envisioned a similar meeting sitting in his couch, at work or walking down a street alone at night back when he had just stopped enjoying it. But this time, unlike how those imaginary encounters played out, he didn’t know what to say. Why was she there? Why did she sit so close to him but acted like she didn’t know him? Perhaps she didn’t recognize him? He hadn’t changed that much. Was it really her? Of course it was, no doubt about it… right? Was this really happening? How was he supposed to act? What to say? The questions only produced more questions, and he didn’t know what to think as he studied her with his gaze. It was her. It was definitely her. She dressed the same way she always did. Her hair tied up with a ribbon, her blue elephant pendants. Like lightning on a storm the memories came flooding back to him, images, sounds, flavors, smells, colors and emotions took over his head. The synesthesia was almost paralyzing. He breathed deeply in an attempt to calm down, but still didn’t know what to do; he just contemplated her, convinced of having found her. Her eyes were wet and swollen, he looked at her directly through her reflection in the window. He had a very bad feeling, and didn’t understand why she was ignoring him. But how could he talk to her? After a few moments the woman dried her tears, got up from her seat and walked toward the exit of the bus. The next stop was the last one, and every passenger was supposed to get off. A group of people were already pressing against the exit doors. He got up almost simultaneously and tried getting closer.

“Hi,” he finally said in a low voice. She stayed silent. A sententious silence. He doubted. “Do you want to smoke a cigarette and maybe talk?” He added in a friendly tone, trying to end the silence.
“No. I don’t smoke, thank you,” she smiled back at him and turned away to the door before he could smile back, ending the conversation. He didn’t understand, there was something wrong. This girl would never say no to a cigarette. Besides, why was she still trying to avoid him in a bus of all places? And why was she on that bus? Where had she been all this time? Why didn’t she want to talk to him? Why had she cried? He kept silent but thinking agitatedly. After a few seconds the door opened and the woman got off.
“Hey! Wait,” he said, following her.

“I’m sorry but I’m in a hurry,” she said before walking faster and crossing the street. He stopped.
“Is it you?” he asked while she walked away. After an instant he dissipated his doubts and yelled “It is you! Of course it’s you” He started following her again. When he catched up he called to her again, this time by her name. The woman stopped and turned around.
“You’re confused,” she exclaimed, staring directly into his eyes, “I don’t know you, I don’t know who you are. You’re mistaking me with someone else.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered without knowing what was going on. Had he really confused her? Impossible. It was her face, her eyes, her mouth and her voice. He stood still, once again watching her walk away. In a few seconds he convinced himself it was all a misunderstanding, an error on his part, so he turned around and decided to look for a place to get a drink.

He went inside and sat at the bar, immediately downed one drink and asked for another. He had no clue what had just happened but he was shaking. Was it really someone else? But how could such an incredible likeness be possible? Was he going insane? He knew he wasn’t. She was real and he’d just found her like death would one day find him. At his side was a man scribbling down numbers on a piece of paper from the horse races broadcasted on the TV. He remembered he was going to the hospital before any of this happened, he had until 6 to visit his friend who had a knee surgery the day before. When his drink arrived he sipped slowly and took out a notebook from his bag, trying to write down his thoughts, to calm down.

'I just saw you but it was your double. Maybe you had a twin sister you never knew about, maybe you were separated at birth. She was your double. Or it was you. Tell me. Can you hear me? I’m writing this so you can read it. Not really. I don’t know. Why am I writing? I feel impossible. It was you, I’m sure. No. Not really. I haven’t been sure of anything for a while. Maybe at times? This uncertainty has become a close friend, an old friend. I think about the times everything was easier. Everything was stable. I remember complaining. I felt stuck. Remember when you said I should go to therapy? Well can your therapist explain any of this? I remember when I stopped being alone. Now. Just stop. Go to the fucking hospital.'

He finished his drink. When he walked out a wave of heat hit him. He didn’t want to take another bus and decided to walk the few blocks to the hospital. Thinking about what had happened, he couldn’t get the doubt out of his head. Was it really someone else? How incredibly weird. As he walked, the faces of the people in the street seemed fake, like they were merely drawings, or masks hiding the true nature of those who wore them.