gestures

Picture by Joe Schneid, Louisville, Kentucky

sitting in the darkened front of the bus, on my way to the cheap theater to see a classic movie about a man who could buy everything he wanted but the love. alone in my day and distracted by the chunky couple across from me, so convincingly boyish in their tats & baseball caps, i was never entirely certain either way, as one of them stroked the meaty forearm that lay across her leg, just a finger, tracing a line down in a slow swipe, meticulously deliberate, delicate, the eyes meeting like crystal kissing across a candlelit table, wordlessly checking in: are you okay with this? i am so okay with this. i haven't been touched today. i look away, out the window, still adjusting to the too soon arrival of late night darkness. the bus suddenly stops and the driver starts waving his hands at the glowing red window as he opens the door. an old lady with mcdonald's red hair boards the bus, squeaking to the driver who apologizes: i know, i know, i didn't see you. i won't leave you, i promise! and the old lady squeaks some more, her voice impossibly high and wordless. she sits down at the very front of the bus and the one who was doing the stroking starts signing to the squeaking old lady: do you sign? how are you? a flurry of hands flap near their faces like desperate hummingbirds hovering over a feeder after sunset. still no words but the squeaking sounds happier, and then the signing subsides, and the one who was doing the stroking returns to the love they were signing in skin.