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Eye-contact

In the first bus I used to take to work, the passengers were barely cordial in their behaviour towards each other. We greeted each other with, “Good Morning,” and went as far as offering an available empty seat. Very rarely did we engage in conversation proper. If we did, the topic of conversation was something bland like the weather or a complaint about a price hike for each bus ticket. I yearned for more.

Now, however, on this new bus I take to work, I do not wish to know any of the other passengers in this bus. The journey is longer but, I swear, the blurred view of half completed housing estates, somewhere in the dense concrete jungle of the suburbs of outer-Kuala Lumpur, is far more agreeable than making eye contact with any human being in this bus. That is the extent to which I’ve consciously blocked out the world. It is precisely that eye contact thing which got me into such trouble in the first place. I made eye contact with … her. I refuse to say the name.

That first day I saw her, over five months ago, the bus was unusually full of passengers. However, the moment she stepped onto the bus and momentarily looked at into my eyes, all discomfort from the horrid heat and the smell of the odious man in front of me vanished. When she took a recently vacant seat two rows ahead of me I swore under my breath. I would have done anything to have her, and not these other passengers, brush past me, thereby causing my beer belly to wobble. Yes, I know, it is strange thing to enjoy the feel of your belly wobbling but, you have to allow me my small pleasures. The fact is, we made eye contact.

From that moment on, I could not take my eyes off of her person when she was in the bus – I knew she had a mole just to the left of her mouth. I knew her fingernails were painted daily and the colour always matched the blouse she was wearing. Still, I took care, for when I sensed she was about to look my way, I averted my gaze lest she think me a stalker. This pattern continued for a month; then, fate took over.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked on a rainy day, much like this one, a few months ago.

Forced to look deep into her almond shaped eyes, I know not what I mumbled in return but it must have been good enough for her to reply with, “Thank you,” and take the seat next to mine. I tell you, just watching her slide her hips along the iron frame in front of us and thereafter, lower her full bottom onto the seat next to mine made me sigh softly. The sheer grace of her every movement, from tucking a lock of her shoulder-length wavy hair behind one delicate ear to licking her lips to keep them moist was beauty in motion.

Then she spoke. She turned to face me and in her sweet but deep voiced asked, “You’re a regular, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“It’s time we get to know each other. Don’t you think?”

 

Again, I nodded, feeling increasingly stupid as time went by.

“My name is Leslie. And yours?” she asked.

“Errr … Peter,” I whispered.

She put her hand out for me to shake it. When our skins touched, I had a sense of excitement I had never before felt. My daily bus rides to work were transformed from mundane to exciting. The conversations we had were exhilarating and my opinion actually mattered to her. I literally hungered for that daily journey to work. Those 40 minutes together meant everything.

Imagine.

The one day she was late for the bus, I harassed the bus driver into waiting an extra fifteen minutes for her. Weekends were soon a torture. I despaired whenever it was a Friday as it meant I would not see her for 2 whole days. The loneliness I endured during those 48 hours at a time was physically painful.  Nonetheless, though I would never admit it aloud then, I knew that there was something not quite right about this relationship, especially when she point blank refused to tell me where she worked. In hindsight, I suppose I should have been more cautious; however, such was the intensity of my feelings for her that when she laughed off my queries about her family, I laughed with her.

You know, I should give myself some credit for I did do some investigation. After she alighted from the bus, I made my way to the other passenger she spoke to, on this one wretched day when she sat with him and not me. He told me all he knew was that she came from a very poor family somewhere in Kelantan.

She was not pleased when she found out about this intrusion. “Why do you want to know so much?” she asked, a frown marring the usual smoothness of her brow.

“Sorry. I want to know everything about you, my darling,” I replied, afraid I’d incurred her wrath.

She paused for a minute, laughed and I joined in, not particularly sure what was so funny.  We carried on in this fashion of being non-committal for sometime.

On a rainy Monday, four weeks ago, some 20 minutes into our journey, she turned to me and asked, “Would you like to come over for dinner, cutie-pie?”

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

“I’ll cook you my special curry which will leave you all hot and sweaty,” she purred, her lips pouting.

“O.K., O.K,” I replied, a little breathless.

“Come over on Sunday. Here’s the address,” she said and handed me a piece of paper.

I had but one delicious thought for the rest of that week: She thinks I’m cute. Fat and balding but still cute.

I was a bundle of nerves, excitement and fear as I stood in front of the door to her apartment. When she opened the door, I could not help but notice that she greeted me wearing nothing more than the shortest pair of shorts I’d seen and a skin tight pink top which did absolutely nothing to hide her modesty.

Cigarette. Quick, I thought and reached for one. But, I had no lighter and stalled.

She seemed to sense my need and pointed to her bedroom while saying, “You’ll find a lighter in there.”

As I picked up the lighter from her pine wood bedside table, my attention was drawn to the solitary item on the top of the chest of drawers by the far corner of the room. The photograph inserted in an ornate photo frame was that of a handsome man, standing with hands placed on his hips.

Perhaps, the thought I’d seen this person before did cross my mind. But, I can’t even be sure now about this. What I do remember is the intense jealousy I felt that there could be another in her life.

She walked into the room then, a glass in her hand. With a show of courage I was most certain I did not have I turned to face her and demanded to know, “Who is that man? Is he your boyfriend or what?”

Silence.

“Tell me. I want to know,” I said. I wanted to sound authoritative. Only, when I spoke, my words sounded like a puppy whimpering in pain.

She lifted my chin and made sure we were making eye contact before speaking. Her answer floored me; her words simple and warm but to the point. She said: That was me, before the sex-change operation.

Aneeta Sundararaj is the editor-in-chief of 'How To Tell A Great Story' (http://www.howtotellagreatstory.com ). Visit the website to learn more about her work.