True Beauty

For this week's topic, I'm going to share a story that I wrote.  It's from almost five years ago (though I edited/improved it last year) but I still think that it is one of my best pieces, which is why I'm proud of it.

            He was a beautiful man.  His skin was tanned bronze, his golden hair shone like the sun, and his green eyes were as bright as the ocean at midday.  He was like a young Apollo.

            We met on the bus.  I was on my way to work.  He was going to the hospital.  His brother had leukemia.

            He told me his name was Matt.  I told him mine was Salacia.  It isn’t.  I wanted him to remember me.

            Each Thursday, we shared our morning commute.  We talked for the forty-five minute ride, telling each other anecdotes from our weeks.

            Sometimes he shared cookies with me.  They were from the bakery below his apartment.  They were very crumbly.  They were very good.

            It rained, once.  It was ten steps from my stop to my office.  It was ten minutes from his stop to the hospital.  I gave him my umbrella.

            The next week, he wasn’t there.  An old lady sat in his usual seat.  She smiled when I sat down, and asked if I wanted to see pictures of her grandson.  I said no.

            Where could he be?  Maybe he had moved away.  Maybe he had switched bus routes to avoid the annoying woman with the weird name.  Maybe he had the flu.  Maybe he’d be back next week.

            He wasn’t back the next week.  Or the next.

            I bought a new umbrella.  It was green.

            He was an ugly man.  His skin was pale and sallow, his brown hair hung limply, and his grey eyes were as dark as cobwebs.  He was like a young Hephaestus.

            We met on the bus.  I was on my way to work, fretting already about the day ahead.  So was he.

            He told me his name was Anthony.  I told him mine was Sally.  I didn’t care if he remembered me.

            Every day, we shared our morning commute.  We barely found words to fill the time, but those we spoke were always the most important ones.

            Usually he brought coffee.  I had my own.  It came from the Tim Horton’s on my corner.  It was very hot.  It was very good.

            It rained, once.  From my stop to my office building was a ten step walk.  It was ten more to his.  I walked with him, sharing my umbrella.

            The next day, he was still there.  He sat in his usual seat.  He smiled when I sat down next to him, and asked if I wanted to go out for coffee.  I said yes.

Where would this lead?  Maybe I would gain a coffee buddy.  Maybe we would date.  Maybe it would last a while.

            It lasted the next year.  And the next.

            I bought a new dress.  It was white.

I saw him once, at the café.  I said hello.  He returned the greeting.

His brother had died.  He hadn’t needed the bus anymore.  I sympathized with his loss.  It was a long time ago, now. 

We chatted about the weather, and about the bus.  The bakery had closed.  He made his own cookies now.  They were very crumbly.  They weren’t very good.

He commented on my wedding ring.  I smiled sheepishly.  He showed me his.  I laughed.

There was silence.  His coffee was gone; he paid his bill.  He gave me his business card and said he’d see me around.  He went home.  I never saw him again.

I went home to Anthony.  I wrapped my arms around him, and I cried.  I cried because he was perfect and beautiful.  I cried because I loved him.