He And I

He and I

By: Sharon McGee

He’s taking the bus to Durham today.

I hear him tell the rider next to him that he’s saving gas, money…the planet.

He glances once, no—twice—at me sitting on the first row, in the first seat, behind the driver.

I pretend not to notice and turn brown eyes back to Morrison, who, now, won’t be read beyond page 15.

I furl through unread pages and wisps of cool air granting absolution, like gentle kisses, caress my cheeks, my lips, my forehead.

I fiddle with the sunflower marker wedged in between and realize that it too will remain rooted.

A bell rings, and Time ceases as matchmaker. Our bus slows to a stop and the driver yells out her customary, “Durham Station!”

I gather my things and then wait patiently for others to deboard.

I look across the space and notice that he is waiting too.

He nods politely as a parade of smiles adorned in blush red, copper, and summer peach pass by, their Monarch butterfly lashes all fluttering with admiration.

I’m not his, but I’ve already asked him to be mine. Though ebony lips stay sealed, the Heart interprets the silence.

I stand, a remnant of the departed.

He motions me forward, allowing me to relinquish last place.

From behind, he laughs as he reads the title of my book and assures me that I will like the ending.

I turn to him and smile, “I think I will” is my reply. He and I, just he and I.