The bus was nearly full. Yellow light made the whole inside feel cheap, like a waiting room nobody wanted to be in. She got the window seat. I sat next to her, feet not quite touching the floor, poem folded twice in my hand.
I didn’t even like poems. But I’d written one and held on to it for a while, until that day. I thought maybe she’d be different. She wasn’t mad. She hadn’t yelled. Her face looked neutral enough to risk it.
So I gave it to her. Just handed it over and waited.
She read it, quickly, like it was something she wanted over with, then laughed out loud. A real laugh, she said I was just like him.
“Eres igual a tu padre, escribiendo estupideces.”
I just looked straight ahead. The man in front of me had a collar stained near the neck.
Ah, there’s a stain. Wonder how he got it. Does he even know it’s there? Did anyone hear her?
There were no more words exchanged until after we got off the bus when, to appear unperturbed, I offhandedly posed some irrelevant question.
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