Seatmate

Chapter One

“Excuse me, miss. Hi. Is this seat taken?”

“Nope. All yours if you want it.”

“Thanks!”

“So . . . I take it literally every other seat was already occupied on the bus?”

“How’d you guess?”

“I honestly can’t think of another reason why someone would electively choose the aisle seat in the back row directly across from a bus bathroom.”

“Yeah . . . probably should have gotten here a few minutes earlier. I’m just glad I didn’t miss the bus.”

“Well, here we go.”

“Bye, Boston.”

“In this traffic, I think you’re going to have at least another hour to say goodbye to Boston.”

“Right. Uh . . . You know, it helps if you don’t think of it as traffic. Just imagine that the bus is legally obligated to drive all the way to New York at thirty miles per hour. That way it’s a lot less frustrating.”

“Ah, I see the logic in that. Just surrender to what you can’t control.”

“Precisely.”

“I’m Gwen, by the way.”

“Hi, Gwen. I’m Sam.”

“Nice to meetcha.”

“Yes, um. You too.”

“I like your hair.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks. It’s new. The indigo part, I mean. The brown part is the same as always.”

“You don’t see a lot of indigo hair.”

“Yeah. The hairstylist was very excited when I asked for it.”

“Oh, you went to a stylist? That’s why it looks so neat and tidy. Most people dye their hair interesting colors while they’re kneeling over their bathtub, trying not to dye their fingers the same color.”

“Ha, yeah? Sounds like you have some personal experience with that?”

“I would argue that dyeing your hair an unflattering shade of red is actually a really productive and healthy way to get through a break-up. Maybe even a rite of passage.”

“Ah.”

“Is that why you dyed yours? Rebellion after an overbearing ex?”

“Huh? Oh, definitely not. No. I guess I just thought, um, time for a change? I got it done on Friday and they haven’t seen it at work yet. So, I guess we’ll see tomorrow morning if I have to shave it all off.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t shave it! Just dye it back if you have to. It would be a shame to lose all that hair. You’ve got a very . . . Pepé Le Pew thing going on. Except, your stripe is indigo not white.”

“Oh, brother. That is definitely not what I was going for with this hairstyle.”

“Skunk who can’t take a hint isn’t the vibe you were going for? How odd.”

“Yeah, no. Pepé was a twerp. Is he even still on the air? I hope not. His whole no means yes thing is just creepy when you think about it.”

“Agreed. He had great hair though.” “Oh. Sorry about the annoying ringtone. I should probably . . .”

“No worries, go ahead.”

“Hey, Ma . . . Yup, I made it. Sorry, I should have texted you . . . Already on the I-95 . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . No, you didn’t. Are you serious? Hold on, let me . . . Oh, a tuna-fish sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. Thanks, Ma. That was sweet of you . . . Yes, I’m buckled. I swear. Did you call Aunt Laura yet? . . . Well, you’ll feel better when you do . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Well, it’s rude to talk on the phone on the bus, so I’ll call you when I get in . . . Don’t worry, it’ll be fine . . . Love you too. Bye. Ahem. Ah, sorry about that.”

“No problem at all. Your mom?”

“Yup.”

“She seems caring.”

“She is. Maybe a little too much? But, anyhow. Don’t worry.”

“Hm?”

“I’m not going to eat a tuna-fish sandwich and a hard-boiled egg on an enclosed bus.”

“Oh, thank God. I think my life flashed before my eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s my mother for ya. Sweet enough to pack you a secret lunch, unbothered enough to pack the stinkiest foods known to mankind.”

“Look, I know it’s lunchtime, but if you can choke down a hard-boiled egg while sitting across from a Megabus bathroom then you deserve some kind of medal. Seriously, I wouldn’t even be mad. I’d be impressed.”

“Speaking of the bathroom, I think we have an incoming.”

“Oh, boy. Quick, let’s talk about something else.”

“So that we’re not thinking about whatever is happening in there?”

“Exactly.”

“Um . . . Um . . . I’m terrible at thinking of topics.”

“So, your mother is in Boston, but you work in New York?”

“Oh. Yes. Correct.”

“And you live in New York?”

“Also correct. She’s lived in the Boston area her whole life. I moved to New York for undergrad and never left.”

“Which borough do you live in?”

“Queens. Sunnyside.”

“Oh, that’s a great neighborhood.”

“You’ve spent time there?”

“I’ve spent time in every borough.”

“So . . . NYC is home for you too, then?”

“Yes. No. Sort of. Ugh. Sorry, let me check this text.”

“Bad news?”

“Huh? Oh. Not really. Just this guy, he’s sort of my work rival and every so often he taunts me over text.”

“He’s . . . a grown man?”

“Uh. Yeah?”“And he’s taunting you over text? What an ass.”

“Yeah, I wish it were more complicated than that, but pretty much you just hit the nail on the head.”“So, hold on . . . What does yes, no, sort of mean?”

“Hm?”

“Is New York not home for you?”

“Oh. Well, I travel for work so I don’t really spend enough time at my apartment to think of it as home. But yeah, New York generally is home. I moved there right after high school as well. So, where did you go to school?”

“Hunter. What’s your job, then? That requires so much travel?”

“I’m a photographer. And a writer. And you?”

“Oh, wow. That’s so cool. Do you work for a magazine or something?”

“I freelance. And can usually get an article or two in my buddy’s lifestyle magazine. But for the most part I run a blog.”

“A blog? Cool. How would I find it?”

“Oh . . . you want to see it?”

“Definitely.”

“Ah. Here. I can pull it up on my phone.”

“Holy smokes, Gwen, these photos are gorgeous. Do you mostly focus on jewelry?”

“Well, my main interests lie in how and why people choose to decorate themselves in general. Often that’s jewelry. But it’s also tattoos, fashion, protective gear, hairstyles, you name it.”

“Ah. Hence your interest in my hair.”

“Well, it is pretty interesting hair. About that, actually—”

“So, you meet people, photograph them and their . . . decoration choices and then write about them?”

“Yeah, I do long interviews with them. Sometimes I end up spending a whole day, or even a few days with them, depending on how well we hit it off. But I find that it’s usually a great entry point into getting someone talking about themselves. Why they dress the way they do or why that particular tattoo in that particular place or ‘this was my mother’s locket that she gave me on her deathbed and I’ve never taken it off,’ that kind of thing. Oh, shhh! I think they’re coming out of the bathroom!”

“Wow.”

“Don’t look up. Just ignore it. Stay focused on this space here, between us. Whatever happens over there does not concern us, Sam.”

“Right, right. The bathroom eighteen inches to my left does not exist. Okay, um, in the interest of distraction: question. And if it’s too impertinent, feel free to tell me to shove it.”