AnYi 安亦

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Your character meets somebody new on the bus. His or her opinion about the person is changed by the end of the bus trip. How did this change occur?

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During the whole song and dance of getting on the bus, I skim the floor with my eyes. There are a fair few people – most of the seat-pairs contain at least one person, but I spot one a little way past the midpoint that seems unclaimed. Pleasantries – and, more importantly, ticket – exchanged, I beeline the empty seats and throw myself into the closer of the two; I’m aware how that looks, but I don’t really care. It’s just been one of those days.

A moment later, I have headphones firmly back in my ears and blaring enough angsty rock music to drown out a helicopter. As the doors squeeze shut, I let my eyes do the same. The world outside my eyelids dissolves, and I’m left in the comforting emptiness. All that exists are the music, the surprisingly solid chair beneath me, and the tapping on my shoulder. ‘Wait, what?’

My eyes snap open and drink in the scene as quickly as they can. There’s a man towering over me. A huge, broad man – my first thought would probably have been minotaur were it not for the tattooed bald head really drawing attention to the lack of horns. He has one hand reaching towards me and the other securing something heavy on his shoulder; I can’t see the object, but I can see the strain in his arm, so – judging by the thickness of said arm – I assume it’s something in the region of a small car and hastily scramble out of the way. I realise that mistake when he nods gratefully and takes the aisle seat. I groan (inwardly, I hope – it’s difficult to tell with the headphones in) but resign myself to a journey bereft the bliss of loneliness. ‘Still’, I think, ‘there are other joys of public transport…’

The man is busy with what I now see is a well-stuffed duffel bag, so I let my eyes roll over him, curiously. Bar his size, the most striking facet of his appearance is the surprisingly artful tattoos; they resemble a snake in the way they weave over his neck before disappearing down his back – I can picture them slithering off of his skin into a coil, lashing out at who- and whatever is nearby with sharp, inky teeth. The image of violence brings a thought to mind. An image plucked from the screen of any number of films and TV shows. An image of guns, and balaclavas, and money. And duffle bags. My eyes drop once again to the bag he’s fiddling with – it doesn’t seem thatheavy, at least not to this walking house of a man. What if he wasn’t straining with it? What if he was just shaking? Shaking with fear. Fear of being caught – of not getting away with his crime when he’s so close.

I’m almost at the point of resolving to call the police when he reaches up for the stop button. While the bus trundles to the next stop, he finally ceases his fiddling and rises to his feet. The bag appears to have shrunk substantially when he lifts it effortlessly with one hand; in the other, he holds what looks like a doll made of solid metal? I’m flabbergasted – it doesn’t exactly scream ‘steal me!’

It’s only when he gets off the bus that I understand. He casts about and, with a smile, sets both bag and doll upon the floor. Still crouching, he extends his arms to catch the little streak of blond hair that careens into him in a hug. She nearly bursts when she sees the doll.