Anonymous

Later in the journey with Joelle, a man approached us on the Silver Line bus. He was very unsteady as he sat next to us, singing, with his belly cascading out from under his wife beater.

"Like these shoes?" he asked, his head bobbing in little circles with the motion of the bus.
"Yeah, they look brand new," I said.
"That's 'cause they are. I just stole 'em at DSW. But don't tell the PO-lice though."
"I won't tell," I said.
"Ya know, you girls are good girls. The kinda girls a guy could get jealous over and spend every day with. You're the kinda girls I'd want to find if I weren't so fucked up on drugs and all."

Joelle and I didn't answer. With every pause he resumed his song, which may have been improvised, but included the following lyrics:

"She's out of my league... I try to tell her but she's out of my league... but she's so beautiful though..."

I won't tell you the things he said then, which were so graphic and vulgar that even I was forced to avert my eyes and pretend not to hear. He headed for the door when his stop came, but just before the bus stopped, he came back for one last exchange.

"So can I call you sometime?" he asked me.
"No, I've got a man," I said.
"Well, maybe you and I could still get together," he said, placing his hand on my knee, testing my boundaries. Public transit is all about testing boundaries.
"I think you need to get your hand off my leg, please." I was surprised at how firm my voice sounded.
"Ok, alright, I was just waiting for you to say so," he replied, his hands up in surrender all the way out the door of the bus.