Today I took a seat next to a tiny coed in white cargo pants
and black sneakers. I noticed her shoes because she had her feet tucked up
under her. Adorable. She barely took up her own space, which meant I could
spread out a little more than usual. I was beat from a bad night’s sleep and
drifted in and out. Near the end of the ride I opened my eyes and looked at my
seatmate. She was probably something ridiculous like 19, which meant she could
easily be my daughter. And because she looked even younger, I felt this weird
fatherliness toward her. I imagined we were on our way somewhere together, no
need to talk, that’s how comfortable we were with each other. I felt proud and
protective and amazed at this promising young life for which I was responsible.
Just as she reached overhead to signal her stop the bus made a wide turn, which
caused her to lose her balance and fall onto me a little. She looked at me and
laughed. I laughed too. A moment later she was gone. Kids grow up so fast.
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