Love Letter

Ian

Ian: Chapter Two

I was reading when my coffee spilled on the petite lady next to me. I was scrolling to the next page and watching her out of the corner of my eye. Which meant I was not paying attention to my battery-operated coffee mug; it keeps my coffee warm, piping warm. I was still blowing on it each time I took a sip.

I thought I had it balancing on my knee when it tipped; the lid was apparently not screwed on all the way.

As soon as it tipped, the lid went sailing through the air, and the coffee left landed on the woman's lap next to me.

I had rushed to get to the bus station on time. Making sure my coffee lid was screwed on tightly was the less of my concern.

Now anytime I brought coffee from home, I would check and double-check. I did not want to see the look of pain on anyone's face like I was now seeing.

I did not like feeling guilty; it was annoying to be in the wrong. I could tell by looking at her eyes that it hurt, but I was also sensing she was trying to command herself to hold back the tears that were forming, waiting to spill down.

Unhurriedly standing up if hot coffee all over her lap was not her biggest concern to attend to; she made her way to the bathroom a few rows back that was still occupied.

A few seconds later, she was sitting back down next to me, batting her brown hair out of her face. She looked exhausted.

"I am sorry," I say for the tenth or eleventh time, trying not to look her in the eyes, not wanting to make her cry or make her feel like I was making a spectacle out of her.

The second time she headed back to the open bathroom, I hesitated, staring down at my carryon bag. I did not know what to grab to make it better. So I started digging through it as the bus bopped up and down, making it hard to stand. The best items I could come up with were my black athletic shorts and a hand towel to offer her.

If I were in her position, I would want to be out of the skinny jeans she was wearing, probably pressing against the burn, making it feel worse.

I was hoping to find some type of cream that would help, but no such luck. The stench that drifted from the bathroom when I handed the items in I knew had to be from the heavier set guy who had brushed by me as I was strapping my carry-on bag up top.

He was joining his family of four in front of me; they were all sharing a bag of beef jerky, sending the smell down toward me.

Luck was not on her side today. 

I fight a grin from popping up on my face when I see her walking back, holding my shorts up so they will not fall down. Her dressier shirt and jacket do not go with them making her look a lot younger than what she had appeared before heading back to the bathroom. With her small frame and the shorts dragging down lower than her knees, she looks like she is playing dress-up.

I feel bad that I had brought more humiliation on her.

Hopefully, the new wardrobe change would keep the guy two rows ahead of us from talking to her. He had been turning around and trying to get her attention all morning.

She notices the empty seats around us, and I can see that she is deciding what to do. If she should move or stay, I hoped that she would stay.

There had been a current running from me to her when she sat down next to me this morning. It was still there even after I had spilled my coffee on her.

I am annoyed when she moves, making it a lot harder to watch her out of the corner of my eye.

I was a people watcher. I preferred taking buses to my vacation spots or holidays to watch people.