Pioneer Square Vignette No.7

Saturday, September 3, 2022.

On the three down Jefferson then James from Metier Brewing. I could still taste the mole porter and the hops from his IPA. Her hair curly and purple, black underneath. Curl category: 3A. Her shoes sparkly silver. Her shirt, polypro from REI. Maybe it was Under Armour. I don't remember her pants.

The bus didn't smell like anything, except for the city at night. Which is to say homelessness, crushed heroin, smeared blackberries on cooling concrete and low tide in these parts. Where you can hear the seagulls screaming. And sometimes the people, too.

Her brown eyes were wet, tears mixed with snot smeared across her cheeks. Instead of a tissue, she wiped her face with her mask. Surgical and blue.

Sniffling. Shifting. Crying.

She sat facing inward. I sat facing forward. She obsessively checked her phone. I watched her and said nothing but felt everything. Until right before we came to our stop.

"Hey. Are you okay?" I leaned forward.

She nodded her head. "I'll be alright. I'll be alright."

Then she slid next to me and started telling me a story about how she'd just come from a woman's shelter and something had happened but I couldn't tell what because she mumbled and cried.

"But I'll be alright."

I rubbed her arm, stroked her shoulder, ignored her pleading eyes, then stood up and got off the bus.