December 31, 2008
On the bus it’s not like usual, no one talks. They’re all just staring straight ahead.
In a seat by the aisle, a black woman with a headscarf wound to her scalp. Fine features, a long, religious skirt. Opposite, a blue-blonde Russian girl looking out of the window with empty eyes. Her rose wool dress, the one she chose this morning, outlines her thighs. Music plays–the driver’s?–but nobody says a thing.
"Shelach? is that yours?
A crushed chocolate milk carton rolls past my foot. I look up. Is that yours? an old man, maybe 60, wants to know. His brown, furrowed face buries exhausted granite eyes.
Everyone’s waiting. Nobody says a thing.
He has a kippa, the man–it’s black. He’s almost crouching in his seat. Who, he wants to know, has dumped their carton on the floor? His shelach? hovers, then drops like rock into a pool.
My eyes meet his, I just look back. Nobody says a thing.