Friday

At the bus stop, coming home from an improv session that didn't end up happening, though at least we generated a few more ideas, a man walks over and stands under the awning, near to me.  Both of us dodging the rain.  Takes out two apples from his bag, contemplates them both, turns, and offers one to me.  Says they are from his neighbor's tree.  Looks them both over, saying he is trying to decide which is best, then hands one to me. I hold it, not feeling particularly well, and hopeful that my bus will arrive at any moment: the sign says "NOW."  Now never arrives.  He eats his, says it's a little overripe, a little mushy, and very sweet.  His bus arrives, and he leaves.  I contemplate the apple, the oddness of the encounter: I am no fairy tale princess, but seem to have been given a lot of apples lately.  A different bus time miraculously changes from 25 minutes to 2 minute away, and arrives.  It speeds homeward, hardly any stops.  I still have the apple.

Earlier, heavy with sadness, across from me on the bus, she, slouched down and sleeping, batman high-top sneakers on her feet, ink-stained leggings, hand held in yours.  Innocence.  Raising her arms in flight, curling her fingers like claws, then stretching awake into her scarf and immediately falling back asleep.  Held in your arms.  Safe with you.  The witness of it helps, but the sadness lingers still.