Secundi Gradus

The bus decelerates on the smooth curve with a comforting gentleness. The thrum of tires rolling over the wet asphalt is a welcome lullaby to those on board. 

With a slight lurch, the bus rolls to a stop. A handful of passengers stir. They’re calm as they stretch and begin to dismount gingerly, careful not to disturb their slumbering neighbors as they step off for a break, snack, or to begin the next part of their trip. After a few minutes, the bus is relieved of many souls. As the final one enters the rain shower, a young man hurries up the steps, his shoes slopping against the grip-friendly stairs. He seethes at the noise, noticing the sleeping others, and shifts onto his toes. Every step is tense, filled with worry that this or the next will wake someone. 

To his surprise, the bus is quite full—he can tell by the luggage—despite the early morning—or late night—hour. To his dismay, whatever seats don’t have someone in them have ambiguous ownership status. He can’t tell which are taken and which are free as bags, folders, jackets, and the like are scattered about with a difficult-to-interpret disorder.

“Here,” a soft voice whispers. The man looks around, unsure if anything had even been spoken. “This seat is open.”

A tender hand reaches up above the shadows of the bus seats. The man shuffles toward it as it recedes, knowing its purpose is served. He turns into the seat, setting his bag upon his lap. He parts his lips to speak, but is interrupted.

“There’s an overhead shelf,” the voice floats into his ears like a sweet aroma fills a nose.

“I won’t be on long,” he whispers. He looks to the woman—for it was a woman, which her voice, being so quiet as to scarcely exist, did not adequately reveal—who had ushered him over. In the unimposing light, her face is only half visible. “Thanks, though, for the seat.” He turns his attention toward his bag, tugging at a zipper.

“Where are you headed?” She inquires.

“Um,” his hands stop messing with the pocket and its contents as he lifts his eyes to think. “Braylin.”

“That’s not very far, is it?” She whispers. “Are you going to sleep?”

The man chuckles, uneasy. “No, I’m too afraid I’ll miss the stop.”

“I can’t sleep either. The rain is too interesting. Which droplet will win?” He turns to look at the big droplets on the window, which she is gazing at with too high a degree of interest. Through the panel, which disfigures the outside, he can see shapes hurrying back toward the bus.

“Mm,” he offers, as if to say in a not-as-subtle-as-he-would’ve-liked are you crazy? 

She turns to look at him, her lips pulled into a sly smile.

“I’m kidding, of course,” she puffs. “I just have trouble sleeping on the road. None of my friends seem to,” she gestures with her head at the rows of seats behind them. His eyes, now better adjusted to the dark, see her eyes roll as she says this. Gentle breaths and tiny snores strengthen her claim. He returns her smile.

“You’re with a group?”

“Yeah,” the word is almost indistinguishable from a shallow breath, “we’ve got one more state to go for the convention.” She turns back toward the window, sounding uninterested.

“A convention,” the man repeats, “about what?”

She doesn’t answer at first. For a moment the man wonders why, but the absence of her voice makes him realize that the bustling of people re-boarding the bus has overtaken the sharp pattering of rain on the roof. If she spoke in the same whisper, her words would be lost. As the people settle, she turns toward him again, leaning closer to avoid this risk.

“A convention on Women’s Participation in Ecological Studies,” she grumbles. “Just awful.”

“Is it annual?” He pauses for an answer, then prods, “you don’t think a bi-yearly discourse on Women’s Participation in Ecological Studies is important?” 

“Ecology? Certainly, but I don’t understand the gender segregation,” her voice wavers with snickers. “Anyway, it’s getting me a huge amount of extra credit for pretty much every class, and there’s an included four-hour rock climbing excursion.”

“The rock climbing sounds like fun. It’d be a shame if it was just an indoor rock wall, though.” Her eyes widen for a second with dread, then she hurries to produce a pamphlet, flipping to a page.

“Look,” she says, relieved. She shoves the paper into his face.

There’s a picture of a young woman hanging off the side of a rock wall—a natural cliff side, that is—with a full harness and set of climbing gear.

“Very nice,” he says, and the lights shut off. The engine of the bus purrs as the doors squeak shut.

With the tires, the wind, the rain, and the motor producing a generous amount of ambient noise, the pair don’t feel bad about continuing their whispery conversation. They speak more openly, growing more comfortable with each other, he assured of her sanity and impressed by her wit. Their discussion flits from topic to topic like birds among the trees, never a hitch, never hesitating with uncertainty as they dig deeper into each other’s minds. All the while, they grow more jovial. When he bubbles up into an unregulated laughter, she cuts him off with faux sternness, lambasting him for being so loud and rude; and vice versa. A few times, they did pause the conversation to avoid truly disturbing the others with their chuckles; like birds resting on the branches, even then enjoying each others’ presence.

Eventually, the man catches a glimpse of an ugly blue sign with white text flashing by the window. He recedes into his seat as his smile sinks away.

“That’s when I finally changed my mind. After all, ruffled potato chips are superior to potato ‘flakes,’” her voice wanes as she concludes another tangent. His smile returns.

“See? I told you,” he whispers as her head nestles into his shoulder. She yawns. He spends a moment thinking about how to respond, how he can carry on the conversation. He yawns. His heart races as he considers sharing his phone number, or telling her his name. Her name! He hadn’t even asked, she hadn’t even asked. Her warm breath cascades over his hand, rhythmic as she falls asleep against him, nuzzling closer to his body. 

His stomach lurches and his body grows hot as the bus takes a gentle curve, as the tires roll to an easy stop. The dim lights of the aisle flicker to life. Taking a shaky breath, the man tenderly repositions his arm and guides her head and body to a new resting place, replacing his chest and arm with her bag. He looks at the pamphlet on her lap, and pats his pockets, desperate to find a pen. It doesn’t exist. He starts to unzip his bag… but’s it’s far too loud… far too rude… and he’s being presumptuous.

A couple of people work their way out of their seats, and the man glances at her again. Glances at her sleepy smile in the soft light. His ears are full of his heart as he stands with his bag. One more glance, and I’ll be off. He pauses, ready to turn toward her—but another passenger bumps into him from behind. Both apologetic, he hurries down the aisle, forgetting her for a moment. 

He steps off the bus. The cold rain burns and the chilly air scrapes at his fiery skin. Tiredness sets in. His body and mind feel numb, his heart slows. He hears the bus roll away behind him. A frown sets over his lips. His melancholy eyes scan the wet, gray cement beneath him, soaking in its every detail, desperate to remember it, and his clothes grow heavy with the rain.