Love Letter

Lynne:

Lynne:

My skin is on fire. This is not a "haha owie" type of burn but one that made me worry that it would blister and scar.

The worst part about it was letting my imagination run wild since I had not been able to see my skin; yet. Since the guy who walked into the bathroom twenty minutes ago was still occupying the only bathroom on the bus.

I was tempted to grab the jacket hanging over the seat next to me to use as a shield. I am trying to figure out how to peek at the damage done. It is too risky; I am not about to give everyone a view of me in my white underwear.

I had enough embarrassment for one day.

It is obnoxiously hard to sit still since I am eighty percent sure my skin is peeling off. "Ouch," I say from moving my leg, trying to hold back the tears that are forming. I will not cry. 

"I am sorry," the guy sitting next to me says while taking in my face again.

He looked like he was preparing for when I would start crying. He looked like what my oldest sister Lisa called a bracer, someone who could not handle crying.

He was the person I chose to sit next to this morning when I stepped on the greyhound express.

Usually, the perfect hair cut down to the designer jeans he was wearing would have had me sitting elsewhere.

I shielded myself from any interaction with men. Make him an attractive man like my seat buddy, and I really strayed.

This practice was a little hard to follow with my professors from college, or like situations like this morning when it was not on my side since I had two seats to pick from.

It was either Mr. Designer jeans with baby blue eyes or the larger female sitting in the back seat, whose sweater looked like it was shedding cat fur.

I had to decide between having the back row woman brushing my arm constantly or sitting next to the brown hair heartthrob a few rows up, which meant I would have my entire seat space.

However, I did not know the price of choosing to sit next to him was having his exceptionally steaming coffee spilled all over me. This just meant I made the wrong choice in life again.

Not so shocking.

"How is it still that hot?" I say to him, letting a tear escape. I could handle one escaping – just not all of them.

I don't hear his response since the bathroom door a few rows back slides open – I get up as quickly as I can, praying I will not trip over my own feet.

The heavier set guy stepping out of the bathroom with a stain on his sweatshirt looks at me with embarrassment and sighs "sorry" as I step around him.

I was gearing up to push him out of my way; he finally moved.

Clicking the door to lock is when the smell hits me.

Today is not my day.

I am trying to hold back the bile rising in my throat from the smell.

I peel down my jeans slowly, scared to see what lies beneath.

Relief floods over me when there is no blister but quarter-size splotches all over my leg. I take a breath, knowing I can handle a few splotches.

Knocking at the door makes me jump, knocking my head on the wall on my way up.

"Um, someone is in here," I say out loud, wondering if the person had heard me since there are two more consistent knocks. I am tempted to knock the same rhythm on the door back to them.