On the first clear day in months, a Friday, Vicky rode the bus home on No Name’s lap. The sun had just set and ribbons of pink and orange unfurled in the fading sky. The colors were startlingly bright. The bus filled with chatter. It was cold enough for winter clothes, but in its sudden brilliance, the sun had inspired some to shed their coats and hats like skin they had outgrown. A bulbous, smiling woman in a sleeveless housedress sat across the aisle from Vicky, her skin stretched so tight with fat and joy that Vicky thought an efflux of liquid might pour from her mouth and ears at any moment. Milkshake, her nails now a brilliant lime green, wore a tank-top and a loose-fitting shawl and was smiling at the middle-aged man whose lap she sat on. A teenage boy wore in denim shorts, wiry blond leg hair alert among a field of goose bumps. Vicky could see him shivering.

Bon Bon, she thought. Melon. Cheddar, pale legs like bare branches from her too-short skirt. There was Peach. Cashew. Cocoa.

“Am I crushing you?” she asked.

No Name was bundled up in a scarf and a long, wool coat. He looked exactly as Vicky wanted. Sensible and expensive. A little mysterious.

“Nope,” he said, and looked towards the window, clouded now with the grime of car exhaust and oily fingerprints. She shifted on his thighs and he rested his hand lightly on her back, as though to steady her.

A chill rolled from navel to crotch like a ripening vine. She could feel her face grown warm and blush red.

It was this abrupt change in weather, she thought. As if the sun had cast all in a hot autumn fever.

She was burning up, and without thinking she turned abruptly towards him. “Victoria,” she said, and held out her hand. It was an awkward angle and her fingertips jabbed towards his ribs.

He turned towards her and smiled with one corner of his mouth. His hand seemed to press more firmly at her back.

“Tommy,” he said, and gripped her hand. His was cool and bony. She tried to ignore the soft coin of disappointment that lodged in her chest when he said his name. Tommy. What had she expected?

But they talked. He spoke in a soft voice and leaned towards her. The sunlight fell in shafts of gold and peach. He asked her questions, eyebrows knit with polite sincerity. Their voices joined the song of the rest of the bus, as though the rain and fog had muffled their voices and the sudden clear skies had freed them. She hardly noticed that she was answering his questions with lies.
“I’m from Florida,” she said. “Along the coast. My father repairs space shuttles.”

She said, “I had a parakeet once, but on a whim we set him free. I couldn’t stand to inhibit a creature of flight.”

“In truth,” she said, “I find the rain refreshing.”

He nodded. He asked more questions. The vine in her stomach bloomed with anxious appetite. She could smell his aftershave. His eyes were brown behind his glasses, steady little stones.

Eventually they approached her stop. She pulled the chord and stood up off his lap, clutching the overhead railing as the bus lurched to a halt.

“Hey,” he told her. “I’d like to take you out sometime.”

Passengers began filing off, pushing behind her. “Okay,” she said, “Tommy.”

When Vicky climbed off the bus and watched it pull away, she saw him press one hand against the window in a goodbye salute, his palm a pale star in the bruised dusk.

 

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