The Route 62 bus starts its route in downtown Philadelphia and ends it in Andorra, five minutes from the suburbs. It first goes down Market Street, then turns onto the Expressway, at which point it passes Thirtieth Street Station. I catch it one block before there, at the last stop before it leaves downtown. Familiar faces greet me each time, but I never talk to them -- they are mostly women in their middle age, and from what I hear of their conversation, they and I would not have much to discuss.
This day, I saw someone else. She stood out like a sore thumb, sitting in the front seat, turning her head left and right and left and right. She must have been five-foot-eleven, and in her early twenties; her features were soft, apart from her bright and penetrating eyes. She wore a top whose straps crossed at her neck, leaving it and her shoulders exposed. She just seemed full of light and energy, unbefitting the end of the day. I was startled. I had to say something to this girl.
But I walked past her and sat in the back, where I normally sit.
What is it about her that draws me? I asked myself repeatedly. She wasn't ugly, but she was no Venus; suffice it to say that she was not my type. As I stared at her oscillating head, the answer came to me in a flash: Kate. My friend from college. This girl could have passed for her sister. How long ago had I called her -- a week? Maybe two? I was waiting for her to return it. It was long enough that I had already forgotten... and for good reason. By now, you know as well as I do that she isn't calling back. I had asked her a question that I wanted to years ago, knowing full well that her answer would probably be silence.
As the bus proceeded onto the Expressway, our mystery girl pulled the cord to get off at the station. It was too late now. She stared back as it receded into the horizon. But she said nothing, until the woman behind her spoke first -- one of the regulars, late thirties, dark hair, dark complexion. I couldn't hear them; I listened intently, but heard nothing until the woman leaned across the aisle to clue in her friend.
"Six years of French, and I don't remember a thing." She exaggerated somewhat, because she had said something to the girl in French, this girl who didn't speak English. Suddenly, I was glad that I hadn't said anything to her. How I would have hated to agonize over a line, turn it this way and that, perfect the inflection of my delivery, only to be met with a blank stare and "Comment?" (And no, I don't speak French. If you thought I did, your flattery is appreciated.)
It was explained to her -- somehow -- that she would have to wait until the bus got off the highway, then wait there for the next bus downtown. It was a good forty minutes out of her way, but it couldn't be helped. I wondered at her presence here; was she a tourist from France? Or maybe Quebec? Or one of the other francophone places I never think about? Why would she choose here to come on vacation? And why would she come alone when she couldn't speak the language? I had just gone to Italy a month before, staying with cousins, and I just barely scraped by, despite having studied Italian for years and years.
When I'm wrapped up in thought, an hour can pass like a minute. Before I knew it, she was stepping off the bus. I kept my eyes trained on her as the distance between us increased. She looked down the street, then up again, not knowing what to expect, or how long she'd have to wait. The next day, I made a point of looking at that stop, to see whether she was still there. She wasn't -- you know it as well as I do -- and I was glad of it, apart from a small pang of sadness. She has gone, and I am here day after day, waiting on impossible chances, yet hoping for more of these chances to come along.
When I finally got off the bus, I laughed to myself and muttered under my breath. Lord, next time you put a goddess on the bus with me, let her speak English.