Encounter

I awake to a crepuscular ray of sunlight stabbing my eyes, stirring me from the deep slumber possible only in the gloom of winter. Frost clings to the windowpanes like frozen spider webs and my breath puffs from my mouth like a steam train. The thermostat is set as low as possible without freezing the pipes – money is tight. 

I skip a full shower and wash my armpits and sensitive regions using a washcloth and the bathroom sink. I dress as warmly as possible and have a quick breakfast of toast and bagged cereal before heading out the door. 

The bus station is a few blocks down my street from my loft, and as I walk my footsteps echo loudly, the cold air amplifying every sound. A grey squirrel, fat and twitchy, gathers a few more cheeks full of the nuts and seeds that have somehow not yet been gathered; a scruffy old crow squawks from another tree, threatening to steal the haul at any moment. 

A few dilapidated empty buildings slouch against the cold, their busted windows like bloodshot eyes. Trash is strewn in gutters and in the sharp angles between the sidewalk and walls. As my mind wanders over my neighborhood, I miss a section of the sidewalk cracked and lifted by an old Oak root. I smash the toe of my shoe into the fractured concrete. 

“Dammit!” 

My voice is louder than I intended, and I look around quickly, feeling embarrassed. My breath carries the curse away on a little cloud, and I tuck my chin, trying to hide myself from shame and cold alike. 

Just when I think my frozen face, feeling heavy from the penetrating cold, will separate from my head and fall to the ground to shatter at my feet, I turn the corner and arrive at the bus stop. Now I’m sitting on a cold bench, reading bawdry poetry and folk-art renderings of human anatomy, wishing the bus would be early for once. 

“Good morning.” 

A man appears without me noticing his approach. He’s wearing an oily parka, its hood fringed with yellowing faux fur, and thread-bare denim pants. Thick, yellow toenails, ridged and jagged edged, peek out through the worn toe boxes of oversized work boots. Grime has found its way under, between, and inside every available wrinkle, pore, and fold of this man’s body. 

An odor pulsates from him like a leaking nuclear reactor; it smells like urine pickled onions mixed with fresh manure. 

I look at him without turning my head, giving a vague smile. 

“Oof, so cold this morning.” He talks too loud with a high-pitched rattle in his voice; his mouth is mostly devoid of teeth. 

I clear my throat, “Uh, yeah, winter in the Great Lakes.” 

“Fair enough, fair enough.” He settles to my left on an arm of the U-shaped bench. It’s quiet for a minute and I stare straight ahead, feigning interest in the empty streets around us. 

Where the hell is the damn bus?  

Eventually I feel him staring at me and I bring my focus inside the bus stop again, monitoring him in my peripheral vision.  

Still staring, he begins to mumble to himself; his low words are interspersed with sharp punches of sound as if he’s arguing with himself. His hands flutter about, keeping pace with the muttering and emphasizing the louder, more emphatic, vocalizing. 

Now I slip off my backpack and rummage through until I find my pocket Latin book. I zip up my pack and leave it sitting next to me, between me and him, and begin reading. 

I’m able to get lost in thought over vowel pronunciation and some beginner verb conjugation, no longer watching him in my peripheral vision. 

I notice he’s stopped mumbling, and I start to relax a bit. 

“Marianna non iam est.” 

My eyes lock on the page, no longer seeing the words, and I feel the follicles on the back of my neck harden and rise. I no longer feel the external cold as it blooms inside of me, freezing my guts and making my jaw muscles quiver – the beginnings of full body shivers. 

My inner voice is screaming at me not to look at him, not to engage, but there is no way I can resist. 

I turn my head toward him; my eyes focus beyond him, and I take a deep breath – in and out slowly. I shift my focus to his face, and he is looking directly at me; his facial muscles are fully slacked. 

“Wh...What did you just say?” 

He’s still for a beat longer and then resumes mumbling and rocking in place. His eyes are shifting around the shelter, never stopping for too long. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” 

No response. I launch to my feet and step toward him, looming over his grimy head, waiting for him to look at me. 

I hear a rumbling and an airy whistling sound; the bus lumbers into view and stops in front of the shelter. 

“Who are you? How do you know that name?” 

He turns his head and gets to his feet; leaning away from me, he bends an arm and with his elbow, gently pushes me back a half step. 

Without a word, mumbled or otherwise, he shuffles out of the shelter past the bus, and saunters down the road. 

I stare, dumbfounded, breathing hard, and grinding my molars together when the bus driver gives a quick horn blast. Gathering myself, and my belongings, I leave the shelter and board, finding a seat toward the back. 

The bus is still sparsely populated, and no other passengers are near my seat. Holding my pack in my lap, I extract the small leather pouch with its chipped gold colored zipper and faded engraving of a pine tree contained within a circle of twisted branches filled with perching songbirds. 

I open the pouch and carefully slide out the photos inside. Delicately shuffling them, I stop at her picture. She sits atop a massive piece of driftwood, bleached by saltwater, sun, and blowing sand. Her chestnut hair is tousled by the onshore breeze, and one eye peeks through a few messy strands. 

Fifteen years ago, I took this photograph – the last day I knew for sure where she was.