Hampstead Heath

Vivien wanted to die. She’d only lived in London for three weeks, not that her surroundings were to blame– she quite enjoyed the mental subjugation living in a city brought unto the mind, and London offered a tranquility in the bustle that New York never had. It was the air that made her feel like she was a fish out of water, depending on the kindness of others rather than her own vitality to survive. Vivien hated being weak. Perhaps she had a naivety about her that Londoners pitied when she craned her neck to read the bus numbers posted on a sticker-tattooed sign when a few simple steps forward would have removed the glare blocking the numbers completely. Perhaps it was her face (that looked starkly American; she missed the way even a stranger back home could identify her as being from the East Coast, perhaps the Boston area?) that allowed Londoners to scoff at her in piqued fascination rather than in genuine contempt. Yes, it must have been her face that indicated she was a regular partygoer and quick catch; that was the reason she lived a livable life in London. Ah, but Vivien wasn’t one to turmoil over the folly of man. Especially not when the rattling of the bus drove her headphones further away from her ears every minute and the fading out of a song happened minutes before its end.

All things considered, it would be a decent time to die. After three weeks, she had finally gotten on the red bus with the number 1 on it rather than some underwhelming amalgamation of digits like 24 or 331. A celebratory, marked end! How enthusing it would be to have her death entombed by the coveted bus number 1, with not only its sleek number but its alliterative name. But Vivien, having been the self-deprecator that she was, wouldn’t hear of an honorable death of any sort. She hadn’t thought through the details– would she be the only one on the bus to die? Would it be a sudden heart attack? A dramatic crash? A passing gunshot? She appeared deep in thought as she attempted to tighten her headphones past their tightest point, but Vivien wasn’t the deep thinking type. Vivien wanted to die to escape deep thought.

Theodore did not want to die. He’d lived in London his whole life, and had sat on bus number 1 forty six times, though he wasn’t counting. He knew the bends and letterboxes of the city better than he had known any woman, body or otherwise. London was his woman. Theodore sat right behind the driver’s box, leaving the seats from which the display of stops was visible open for those who needed it. He wouldn’t tell anyone, but he expected to be thanked for his altruism. He cracked the spine of a freshly bought copy of East of Eden because his veins were laced with the same white powder that peppered (salted) the streets outside. People remarked about the falling snow, and Theodore listened conspicuously. London was his woman, and he was a man. London was his woman, and his woman was one he trod on and displayed with a resigned affection that made London value his company, for his devotion trumped his self-absorption in her eyes.

His pretentiousness was apparent in the way he held his bookmark (still smelling like the factory) between his left index finger and Steinbeck’s top cover, ready to shut the novel in an instant in the chance the old woman sitting next to him remarked that he looked like her grandson or if the pigeons spoke to him through the window. He would not look out at his woman unless tempted– no, that would be too telling. He was not a Londoner who “loved" his city– he had been married to his city for 38 years, and what man looks his wife in the eye after 38 years of marriage?

Vivien noticed this, even though she was trying as hard as possible not to notice anything. From a glance, she knew that Theodore was not a man who would pity her pretty (Boston area?) face. She did not like this. In Vivien’s mind, her naivety kept her safe from the substance of London’s world and love. She did not have years of experience (though she could tap her phone against the scanner at the entrance of the bus quick enough), and she prayed her face could tell this story so she would not have to.

Theodore noticed her as well. He adjusted his hold on his book so that this American girl could see his American book. See it, she did. She was conflicted. Sparking conversation about something relating to herself was not a skill Vivien had practiced in the last three weeks, nor was it something she wanted to do with someone so clearly pleading for a discussion. She wondered if he would start the discussion, but there was nothing he could easily comment about. She seemed the picture of a loner, the way her headphones hid her face from view even more than her bangs did (though the music was not as loud as many might have thought).

Theodore glanced at her and then back at his book, disinterested. Vivien thought she might die from the ridiculousness that made her think anything mildly American was meant for her comments alone. How self-absorbed! She was not a special girl. Her desire to be perceived in this environment where she was just meant to survive made her feel a deep shame. Back at home (the Boston area?), she did not want to die. She did not have to think to exist at home, and her face was not a symbol of Western virginity or British externality. Thinking so endlessly was taxing. Theodore folded one leg over the other and continued reading (perpetually on page 23). He would have said something had she looked more sociable, he told himself. He carried this lie with him until the next stop, after which he did not think about it at all. Theodore never realized he simply was a poor conversationalist and a sorry man.

So when Vivien reached for the stop button on the yellow handlebar slightly too early to be considered courteous, she realized she was not Theodore’s woman and she never would be. Her boots made contact with the crisp ice crystals on the pavement as she walked. Theodore slipped his bookmark into Salinas Valley and scoffed at her ignorance.