For whatever reason, I chose to take public transportation. The bus was sparsely crowded and I headed straight for the back. Although she only glanced up momentarily as I walked past her, I found an empty seat two rows behind the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. As I took my seat I noticed she pretended to look for something in her purse so she could get another good glance at yours truly. I didn’t mind, not in the least. If anything, I was hoping she’d completely turn around so I could partake of that face once more. She offered a smile and I returned the same inconversable pleasantry. I pulled out my iPod and shuffled to find the song that summed up this moment in time: Prince’s “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World.” There I was with earbuds in ear, silently singing a song to her that she would never hear.
Before Prince had a chance to get to his spoken verse, I had moved up a bit to one seat behind her, but on the opposite side. I’m not sure if she noticed the relocation or not. She continued to look down at whatever it was that was keeping her preoccupied. An older lady in the seat in front of me did notice my move, however. She looked over at the young lady and looked back at me and gave me a look that offered both permission and anticipation for what was about to happen next.
I leaned up a bit to see around the seat to find her writing. It wasn’t that it was illegible so much as I was just absolutely taken by her handwriting that I was unable to decipher the composition. I leaned back in the seat attempting to rid my mind of all the possible outcomes that would include me walking away with my tail between my legs. This was all new to me. I’ve never been one to approach a stranger; I’ve always been the one being approached. That’s the way I like it: I give a little semblance of interest and she takes it from there; that’s the way it’s always been. But this time was different. This time I had to get this thing started.
By the time I was finally ready to make my move, I noticed the bus was coming to a stop and she had begun to pack her things. If I was going to make a move, it had to be now. Just as I was about to commence conversation about some relatively inane subject in an attempt to at least get her name, her cell phone rang. She answered with a soft, sweet voice that would have sounded even better had I been on the other end of the call. She stood up exhibiting her petite frame and proceeded to head for the door. I guess whomever it was on the phone was someone she really wanted to talk to because I noticed she had placed both her pen and pad on the seat and had completely forgotten about them by the time she was ready to get off the bus.
This had to have been a sign from above so I grabbed the two and the older lady let out a chuckle as I hopped off the bus. I glanced up the street and saw her walking towards the Hawthorn Gallery on 29th Avenue. It was either that or the restaurant, Grenadine’s, next to it. Still on the phone, she walked just like I thought she would; she had a sort of no-nonsense air about her from what I discerned of her trot. I decided to steal a peek at her writing pad and the heading at the top really caught my attention: “Backseat Love.” I perused the lines that followed and realized that it was a written account of the things that had transpired since I set foot on the bus. A smile came over my face and I began to run towards her. By now, the phone call was over and she was about to open the door to Grenadine’s. I yelled “allow me” a yard or two away and she turned around to see her mystery door-opener. A smile came over her face as she thanked me as I ushered her in. She must have been so awe-struck at that, she didn’t even notice her pen and pad in my hand. She sat at a small, dimly-lit table towards the back near the restrooms and I decided to sit closer to the front…at least for the time being.
She opened her handbag and I noticed a look of antipathy on her face. “She must have just noticed she left her things” I said to myself. I stood up and strolled towards her, pen and pad hidden behind my back. “Looking for something?” I asked. She replied, “I must have lost it.” I inquired as to what “it” was and she said that it was something she was working on. I think she knew I had them, but wanted to continue to play this game. I didn’t mind…as long as I won. “It must have been pretty important to have you burrowing through that bag like a rabbit.” She laughed and I pulled them out from behind my back and handed them to her. She graciously thanked me and offered me a seat. I obliged and did as I was told. I introduced myself and she responded, “Pleasure to meet you, Jeff. I’m Hasanna.” Curious about the etymology of her name, I asked her what it meant. She replied that it was the female form of the Arabic name, Hasan. “It means good or beautiful,” she continued. That she certainly was…
Permalink/Comment