Greyhound, ever the crotchety traveling companion, delivered me to New York City last night with the speed and luxury that has become synonymous with its name.
On most of my bus journeys, I have the comfort of seating alone, but yesterday this was not the case. I believe that my exceptionally average appearance is somewhat intimidating to the denizens of public transport. They, being an unusually motley and disheveled group, often coagulate together rather then have any small part of my normality rub off on them.
As the bus was loading its belly full of thrifty travelers, a pleasant woman of noticeable girth requested to share my personal space bubble for the duration of our travels. I granted her permission with the kind of forced smile one uses to cloak his distaste for strange body contact. She eased into her seat (and into a good portion of mine I might add), and buried her ears in the soothing sounds of Hip Hop.
While I am sure she is a fine lady of hearty stock, her ample size thoroughly prevented me from any sort of relaxation. As sleep took hold of her, her body seemed to spread wider and further into my side, exponentially decreasing my breathing room.
I think I shall blame her for the heartburn I experienced for the duration of the trip. From Maryland to New Jersey, I experienced the constant sensation of an entire chicken nugget forcing its way through my aorta. I expect that this was caused by some remarkable close-contact transference of her presumably inexhaustible supply of cholesterol.
When we finally arrived at Port Authority, we gathered our luggage and parted. No goodbye kiss, no exchange of phone numbers, no promises to write and send postcards.
I shall probably never see pleasant smiling face again, but I like to think that for a short time, I held a piece of her in my heart.
A large jagged chunk, infusing my blood with saturated fat.
