Jaywalking with Strangers

Chapter Two

"The countenance is the portrait of the soul, and the eyes mark its intentions."

Marcus Tullius Cicero

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In the awkwardness of being caught staring so boldly at a stranger, I suddenly realise I actually have no idea how the rest of his face looks. Subconsciously I know he's attractive but I have this burning desire to memorise each line of his face so as the heat in my cheeks dims I moisten my lips nervously and pretend to glance around me casually. He's still smiling softly but is now glancing at the doors as the tram slows at the next stop. I expect he's getting ready to get off here, so I drink in his silhouette like I've reached a desert oasis.

His hair is tousled and brown, worn messily and a little on the long side. His face is angular and jawline pronounced in all the glory of it's strong angles. A deep long scar runs down his cheek and into his chin, snaking its way across the perfect contours of his face and slightly unshaven skin. His chest is quite broad and well muscled, encased in a grey t-shirt with black jeans and nondescript sneakers. He's underdressed compared to most of the other commuters, yet somehow it suits him.

A magnetic quality to his appearance, it's something I can't quite pinpoint but somehow he looks trustworthy and steady. It's not qualities I would normally associate with a stranger, particularly not a male stranger. I truly can't wait till I can commit his likeness to paper, his face is a roadmap of character, quite honestly an artist's wet dream. Except I have to remind myself yet again that I am not an artist, just a girl studying to be an accountant who would quite honestly rather be sketching than adding up figures. But sketching won't pay the bills, at least that's what the school teachers always told me.

The tram jerks to a stop and my errant thoughts of the attractive stranger and misguided career choices come to a halt as I quickly dart my eyes straight ahead at the new influx of passengers. This route stops often and there's not a lot of distance between each stop. More people board than exit, and it's suddenly a stifling atmosphere as the new entrants gaze around searching competitively for seating. A beautiful dark skinned woman clutching a tired toddler's hand tightly walks near my seat, her eyes looking throughout the rows of seating for somewhere to sit her shopping bags down.

I sneak a glance round and see no one racing to their feet to accommodate the new passengers so I suppress a groan and shrug my bag onto my shoulders and slide out of the bench seating to my feet. I gesture to the woman with a slightly forced smile and she says a very grateful thank-you as she drops her bags on the floor where mine had just rested moments ago. I feel slightly ashamed for my disgruntled attitude as I take a few steps over to the nearest standing area and wrap my hands around the cold metal of the painted yellow pole. I'm only standing there a moment when I feel someone come up behind me and grab onto the same pole on the other side. I shuffle slightly and glance over and my eyes meet those elusive hazel ones again as I draw in a sharp breath.

My mouth is still slightly ajar when the tram jumps forward, and I almost slip as the jolt startles me. The handsome stranger reaches out his right arm and steadies me, electricity jumping from his fingertips and searing my bare arm. I catch my balance and cling embarrassed to the pole like it's a lifeline, as I turn my head to say thank-you to my unlikely hero my eyes suddenly notice something missing. Not just something. His arm. His left arm is just gone. Nothing but a stump just above the elbow remains - old scarring and the stubby end of what is left of his arm.

I try not to stare but it's impossible. My sharp intake of breath almost hurts as the artificially chilled air bites the back of my throat. My tongue feels useless and numb as I stare. Seconds past like minutes as I take in his arm, or lack thereof. It shouldn't have startled me as much as it has, but all my previous assessments fall away. I can't believe I didn't notice the arm was missing earlier, but I could only see his right side from my seating. His right arm, although scattered with tattoos across the tanned skin, is otherwise unscarred and perfect. I abruptly realize for the second time in the space of ten minutes I've been rudely caught staring at this man. Damn it. I mutter an incomprehensible apology and a thank you all at once to him and try to turn away, not meeting his eyes this time.

"You can look at ol' Stumpy here, don't feel bad" The accent is British, mixed with a slightly American inflection. Deep and husky and just as captivating as everything else about him. I look ashamedly at him again, as he winks cheekily in my direction.

"My name's Jay, pleased to meet you." he adds, almost as if an afterthought.

My mouth is so dry, I feel like I've forgotten how to speak at all. "Stumpy?" The question comes from my lips without my brain thinking it through. My own voice sounds unfamiliar in the buzz of the conversation around us.

Jay laughs easily and shrugs in a self-deprecatingly way. "It's what I call my bad arm. People are going to stare regardless, so I figured if I named it things would be less awkward..." He trails off slightly "or maybe more awkward? Either way it's an icebreaker and a half." Jay finishes the sentence with a wave of his stump in a comical gesture.

I'm speechless. I've honestly never had anything to do with someone with a disability before. Shit, is losing an arm considered a disability? Is this Jay fellow disabled? He certainly doesn't look like a disabled person. I'm so out of my depth right now I flounder in the thought of trying to small talk. But small talk doesn't seem appropriate right now, considering the man has just introduced his missing appendage to me. I stifle a giggle at the absurdity of this entire awkward conversation.

"What happened to your arm?" Shit. Shit. Shit. The question just snuck out. It's the complete wrong thing to say. It's the wrong thing to ask anyone, especially a random stranger you've just met.

Jay doesn't seem upset or taken aback. He takes the question in his stride, like he answers it often, which I suppose he does. "Motorbike accident. Seven years ago. I was only seventeen. Pretty lucky I only lost my arm, could have been a lot worse."

Losing an arm seems bad enough, but Jay is so casual about the whole situation. The tram has stopped again and more passengers flood on as others step off around us. I'm oblivious to the bedlam around us though as I take in the curious conversation and the wonder that is Jay. Suddenly Friday night commutes have improved drastically, and I don't feel quite so much of an alien in a foreign land.