I tell myself, “Keep your head down, if you can’t see him, he can’t see you.”
I watch my reflected self in the window, painted anxious and completely unnerved. He sits three rows in front, and on the opposite side of the bus. His head flicks around and my eyes dart away, so he won’t catch them and set me on fire. I regulate my breathing, breathe in, and breathe out, in, out, in, out. Breathing seems to be a motor function my Cerebellum refuses to acknowledge when he is around. His presence is suffocating, absolute. My silence is reverent and my heart is bruising my inners, trying to break the hold of my breastplate. I try to concentrate on something, anything but him. People are babbling, music is humming and life is buzzing somewhere outside this bubble. Everything is a silent movie inside this bubble.
I watch his eyes, reflected in the mud-spattered glass. They flutter under his heavy eyelids and attach themselves to mine. There’s that familiar feeling of my heart and the pit of my stomach meeting in a sickening rendezvous. I can’t drag my eyes away. I tell myself, “Put your head down, woman! Don’t be such an idiot!” but I can’t follow through. My soul is twisting, the seat is suddenly unbearably uncomfortable and my skin is too tight across my muscles. And still, his eyes hold onto mine. They do not move from the twitching retinas that could be spinning in my head, or staying, unblinking attach to his own. My body is losing control in the most composed way. There are no words; nothing exists outside this, my eyes captured by the reflection of his. There is the strangest mix of emotion I his eyes- Resent and disgust and what looks like remnants of love- the look of those who have been betrayed.
The floor rattles, and the bus stops. His reflected eyes do not break their hold on mine as people file past, he stands and walks slowly to where the window ends. His eyes drop from mine, and my heart stops for a moment. He leaves, and doesn't look up.
