Just Another Motion

I've been looking at this woman ever since I got on, and at this point I don't even care if she sees me. I doubt she does. Her son—can't be more than four or five—is taking up most of her attention, or at least whatever's left after her phone. Not that he should be. He changes positions to sit on his knees. She grabs his arm, pulls him back to sitting regular, and tells him to behave.

"What's your name?" he asks the elderly woman to his right.

"Denise," she tells him.

"Anthony!" His mother grabs his arm again. "What did I tell you about bothering people? Huh?" She shakes her head. She never cared about an answer, and apparently Anthony knows this because he doesn't give her one. He's been through this before.

The little boy rubs the spot where his mother's grip was, trying to make it feel better. He reaches over to her. The music I could already hear across the aisle gets louder when she yanks out one of her earbuds.

"What?"

"Can I have my juice box?" You'd think he was asking for one of her teeth. A purse that small can't hide a juice box for very long, and it doesn't. When he's done he hands it back and she throws it under her seat. Careless.

He locks eyes with me and smiles. I smile back. This is a good kid. He waves. I wave back. She shoves his hand down.

On the bus everything is real life. This is why people hate it. It reminds them of the world. I want to say something, anything, but I know it'll only fall on deaf ears. People would be quick to say it's not my place. But looking at this scene I can't help but think my place is a whole hell of a lot better than hers.

She pulls on the line for the next stop, and I decide it's close enough for me. I want to see her more. I want to believe I caught the bad minutes. I want to believe that something happened today to make her this way. I want a lot of things I'll never get.

The moment she's two feet from the bus she reaches into her purse. She pulls out cigarettes, takes one out, lights it. She starts walking, Anthony lagging behind, shuffling his sneakers the way a nervous kid does when he's forced into doing something.

"Hurry up!"

So he runs up to her, hand outstretched to meet hers. She's blind to this, facing the other way, and brings her hand back while walking. To her it's just another motion, it's a thing that happens when you walk. The boy lets out a shriek when his mother's cigarette ash burns his arm. And all she can do is yell at him, wondering why this boy is crying for no reason.