Growing Up (2), a true kind of short love story

(continued from)

Two Strangers On a bus

On one cold evening after a day at work, I waited for the bus to take me back home. The daylight was already diminishing after four o'clock, and as night approached, it felt even colder. I was glad that I did not have to ride my motorcycle and could take some shelter on the bus.

I entered through the front door and passed the driver, showing my monthly pass or ticket, and proceeded to the back of the bus. There, the seats were configured for four adults, with two benches facing each other. This arrangement gave me more legroom as long as no one occupied the seats across from mine. The bus closed the doors and started to leave the station with not many people aboard. Feeling lucky, I was sitting alone right next to the aisle with some space to stretch my tired legs. I was glad to be alone, as I was not in the mood to talk to anyone. I surrounded myself with the invisible wall I was so familiar with while trying to stare out of the windows.

At each bus stop, few people boarded or disembarked while I remained alone. At one of the stops, someone got on the bus and stood beside me. I looked up, tried to make a friendly smile, and moved from the aisle to the window seat. She sat on my warm seat beside me and pulled a book out of her bag—a rather unexpected sight. Despite my decade-long routine on the same bus line, I had never witnessed anyone reading, not even during my daily commutes to and from the different schools I attended. The reason why no one reads on the bus might be that at the end of the bus route was a low-income community, where children of families with financial and social problems living in social housing were not really interested in anything other than their own things. I lived in the same community, but I tried to read to escape my depressing life and learn more about what is happening beyond these buildings.

While my 'neighbor' focused on her reading, my eyes wandered around. From the front of the bus to my right window, but they were ultimately drawn to her book; aimlessly wandering eyes got glued to the pages. The bench was not so wide that she wouldn't notice, but she kept on reading. I tried to focus on the words and decided on something I had never done before in my whole life—I started a conversation with a total stranger.

Words were on the tip of my tongue until I had to speak them out. "Can I ask you something?" I dared to say with my eyes fixed on the pages, avoiding eye contact. I noticed that she put her book down and turned her face to me in anticipation of my question.

Now, I had to look at one of the most beautiful faces I'd ever seen. "Sorry, I am sure you noticed that I read in your book," I tried to explain without staring at her, "I've discovered the word Stippe, which I've never heard of and don't understand. What does it mean?"

In the moment I heard myself speak, I immediately wished I hadn't and regretted opening my mouth and the words that came out. I was certain she noticed the blush on my face and would never know what she read into it. I could have avoided the whole embarrassing situation by just keeping quiet in the first place. In my family, it's seen as shameful not to know something; asking questions is viewed as 'dumb'—clever people are expected to know!

However, she did not, as I often experienced, mock my apparently silly question. Instead, she kindly explained that "this is a dish consisting of fried bacon with flour and water or milk, or with vinegar, onions, quark, or a similarly prepared mushy sauce. Where I come from, this dish is quite popular; we even have it for breakfast occasionally!"

It was a delightful surprise to hear such an earnest and detailed response to my question. She was sincere, without mocking or belittling me, but instead took the effort to give me a detailed explanation. In my young life, this was the first time I'd experienced such kindness, and it came right from a complete stranger! Her answer lit a small flame in me, and while I noticed her northern German dialect, I answered in my native southern Swabian tongue, "I've never heard about it, sorry! My mother can only cook three meals; this Stippe you are talking about is not in her repertoire!" I smiled because this time my words came out quite naturally. From her smile, she possibly thought I tried to be funny. But, honestly, I told her the plain truth about my mother's cooking abilities.

With the ice already broken, I found myself literally melting in front of her, trying to be more courageous. "You don't seem from around here. May I ask where you are from?" I tried to keep the conversation going.

"I am from northern Germany and just moved here after I found a job," she replied.

It feels so strange yet so amazing how two people can feel a sense of familiarity, even when they just met by chance for the first time. In contrast, my upbringing and everything I knew were very strict and complex. My parents created a very hostile environment at home; anything the children wanted to do or say had to be carefully considered. Otherwise, we would fall into the trap of retaliation, which would bring us back to the endless circle of violence in different forms—I suffered a lot.

But here on the bus, next to a stranger, I felt entirely different, light as a feather—accepted and respected. Although I had ridden this bus line many, many times before, it never felt so alive just sitting next to a complete stranger and having a carefree conversation about the simple things. I did not feel any pressure; I spoke about positive things that came into my mind, and she seemed genuinely interested, or that's how she made me feel! And I noticed that she put her book back into her bag, indicating her real interest in our conversation.

Even though I was and am still very familiar with this bus route after all these years, I occasionally looked beyond her out the many windows. The bus was literally flying, or at least, that's what I felt. It became very obvious that we were closing in on the final stop, where I had to get off. Fortunately for me, there was a high hill where the bus had to slow down, which stretched the trip, and I could enjoy her company a little longer. For some obvious reasons, I decided to skip 'my' station for a shorter way home and decided to enjoy her company and our conversation a little longer. Her station was the next and final one of the bus route.

As the bus turned into the last station, all the passengers had to get off. Sitting beside the aisle, she got up first, and I followed her. It felt a little sad and I had to push myself to walk behind her. The few steps off the bus seemed non-existent, everything went so fast. We walked to the beginning of the bus station side by side still talking and stopped where the bus left the road and turned into the station. Here, our roads would lead us in different directions - I had to walk straight to the yellow social houses for rent, and she had to turn left into the grey high-rise apartment buildings which were owned by the residents, two people living in two different worlds.

We stood there and continued talking about seemingly trivial but, for me, very interesting things: about her life, her new job, her family, and whatever came into my or her mind. It felt so nice talking to an interesting and kind human being with some education; I wished that it would never end. It seemed that she didn't want to turn left, and I didn't want to go straight either; both of us were just standing there and trying to continue our conversation!

I really can't remember how many buses turned into the station or how many people passed by, but I remember that the time ran very fast listening to her voice and feeling her presence right by my side. It was clear that somehow our time standing and talking had to come to a too-soon end, even though I wished so much it would never come. I could stay here in this moment forever...

Finally, we had a kind of polite and distanced goodbye... Judging from her facial expression, her 'hope I can see you again' seemed sincere. Somehow, I had a frog in my throat and could only repeat her last words in a kind of uncertain voice. I felt glad about the time but also somehow sad that it would end. After she went on her way, I could not leave immediately and watched her with firm steps walking towards her home in one of the newer high-rise buildings.

While I tried to comprehend what had just happened, I crossed the road with a sigh. While her last words still lingered in my ears, her 'hope' brought a smile to my face. This was too nice of an experience to be sad, and this 'hope' had a comforting and soothing effect on my heart.

(to be continued)