the man on the bus

today when i was going to the bookstore, a man sat next to me on the bus. he looked kindly and old, like a grandpa who checks on you in the middle of the night, if anything just to watch you.

he smiled at me and i smiled back like my mother taught me.

have you ever been to the coffee shop on State Street? he asked.

i can’t say i have, have you? i said.

i went once when i was younger, years ago. you just looked the type to go there. he said.

what type is that? i asked.

the type who looks tired, and needs coffee. but good coffee, the kind that comes with clarity, not just caffeine. he said.

i wanted to scream in his face. i wanted to open his eyes with my fingers to see my hair and my neck. but i didn’t need to do that, not really. he saw me. he just meant i look young, i think. when you’re young everything you do is to seek clarity. you ask questions. you ask for directions. you ask what song is playing, and what’s your favorite book? you ask old men on buses what type is that, because for the love of God or whatever is pushing humans around like chess pieces, who am i? please tell me, old man, what type am i? am the type who will end up like you? or the type who will lay under a willow tree next to a person i’ve never known? i want you to know, old man, i tried the coffee on State Street. it tastes like children and sunlight on my face in March. it tastes like my friends smile and your wrinkles. i want you to know, old man. i drank the caffeine, but you gave me the clarity i needed to keep asking questions.

what should i order? i asked the old man.

he smiled.