Georgette was seated on the bench just a meter in front of me. She was also waiting for the bus with 2 brown grocery bags. I'm sure she noticed I was standing and balancing 6 weighty bags amongst my 10 fingers and thought I was unnecessarily tiring myself when I could have the bags well-rested on the bench space beside her.
She flashed me with a big smile before gesturing me to the space.
Out of appreciation for the stranger's sympathy, I walked over to the bench and made myself comfortable beside her, trying hard not to mind the attention-grabbing heat over our heads. Her big smile translated first, into 5 words, "You have very nice skin."
As much as I would have liked to take the compliment w/o a hint of rebuttal, how could I when it came from a woman who has subtly-blushed porcelain skin attached to her face? The compliment was moving to the wrong direction. It was just right to direct it back to her instead of accepting it cooly and w/ an "Are you kidding? But thank you for saying it anyway" shrug.
It turned out that Georgette is not cool with compliments, either, so we let that bounce between us for minutes into our meeting before her smile and my appreciation developed into
a full-fledged conversation.
When the bus arrived, I was careful about choosing my seat. I made sure I would be sitting at a distance that won't freak the "60+ year old woman" in my new friend, at the same time allow me to continue a pleasant, ongoing conversation. I thought Georgette, in a quiet breath, appreciated that.
My silent assumption was right; Georgette is a Lebanese. She could very well have been the grandmother of one of the Lebanese students at the daycare I was volunteering at; they with the exaggeratedly long lashes, perfectly shaped noses, and bright pink lips. I shared with her a self-set certainty that the Lebanese are among the most beautiful people on Earth.
Despite her flattered hesitance, I knew Georgette loved the generalization.
I write this almost a year after, long enough for time to make hazy the rest of the details of that singular conversation. Singular I say because the truth is, nobody talks to each other in the bus stop or on bus rides. What they show in the movies is a romantic depiction of the many beautiful possibilities in public transportation if only commuters burst their personal bubbles and acknowledge a stranger's beauty or quirk or strangeness.
As Georgette had.
***
A silent hope that the ride that day would take longer than usual made no difference. My bus stop along Gipps St came first. As waiting for the bus ends at some point, so do bus rides.
P.S. Whenever I remember that random conversation with Georgette, I regret that I did not think of asking her permission for me to take a photo of her.
No comments:
Post a Comment