Upside Down(2)

I sighed petulantly. “I didn’t read that far.”

“I gathered.”

“Did Mrs Peterson seem okay?”

Merry smiled. “Of course, she was fine.”

“I’m sorry about that, and I’m really thankful you swooped in to save me. Again. So, thank you.”

“That’s okay. I left a massive pile of returns for you to shelve as payment.”

I glanced at my watch. It was almost five…

“Plenty of time,” she said with a knowing smile. “I would never let you miss your bus. God forbid you miss seeing him.”

“I regret the day I ever told you,” I grumbled. She smiled, so I poked my tongue out at her but made quick work of the returns so I could be at the bus stop outside the library at 5:06. I couldn’t be late.

I was done by five on the dot, grabbed my satchel, and wrapped my scarf around my neck. It wasn’t too cold yet, but the blue of the scarf matched my shoes. I wore charcoal trousers and a long-sleeve white button-down shirt as a standard dress uniform, so every day I added a little colour where I could. And it had to match. Because I didn’t spend the first eighteen years of my life in the closet and not come out with some sense of style.

I met Merry at the doors of the library and we headed out together. I only had to walk a whole ten or so metres to the bus stop and she headed up Crown Street toward her flat. “We still going tomorrow night?” she asked as I stood in line.

“Ugh,” I said, making a face.

“Jordan, you’re going tomorrow night,” she said, holding my gaze. “We are going tomorrow night. Don’t bother calling in sick tomorrow. I know where you live.”

“That sounds a lot like a threat.”

“Because it is,” she said with a smile.

“I’ll need to go home first and get changed,” I said in a last-ditch effort to bail.

“That’s fine. And if I catch the bus with you back to your place,” she leaned in and whispered, “I’ll finally get to see your guy.”

My stomach knotted with dread. “I never should have told you.”

She looked over my shoulder and nodded. “Speaking of which.”

My bus. The 353 from the city to Newtown. Right on time at 5:06.

“Say hello to him for me,” she said with a smile and waved me off as she turned and walked up the street to her place.

She knew damn well I’d never speak to him, let alone be conversational enough to make any kind of greeting on her behalf. I mean, Jesus fuck, I’d only ever made eye contact with him once and I’d almost died. Literally. He’d looked up once and caught me staring at his beautiful face, I’d stumbled up the narrow aisle, almost fell, took out some poor kid with my messenger bag, and landed in the lap of a nun who, for the record, probably could have done without my “fucking motherfucker” expletive as I fell. On the bright side, Headphones Guy wore noise-cancelling headphones and was oblivious, and I’d slid into a seat up the back with nothing more than a bruised ego and death-stares from the nun. The whole experience had been horrifying.

So no, Merry, I wouldn’t be saying hello to Headphones Guy any time soon, thank you very fucking much. I glared at the back of her head as she walked away until the bus came to a stop and the doors opened. I got on, tapped my Opal card on the swipe screen, and went toward the back. And, just like every day, I scanned the faces until I saw his, careful not to make eye contact.

I got lucky because I scored a seat across the aisle, two seats back, which meant I could stare at his side profile until he got off at the Cleveland Street turn. He had kind of pale skin, brownish-black hair and the scruff to match. Not a full beard, just enough though. He always wore jeans or pants, a shirt and a jacket, and usually boots. I wondered where he might work to dress like that. His clothes were all brands I couldn’t afford, so he had to work somewhere that paid half-decent money. He came from the city every day, yet he never wore a suit like every other guy who worked in the city. He had long fingers that would clutch the rail on the bus as he got off, and blue eyes and pink lips, and I wondered what his voice sounded like. I wondered a lot about him…

I wondered what music he listened to with those headphones. What his playlists looked like. Was it the latest charts, or was it jazz or blues? I could see him listening to some jazz-fusion, or an obscure band that no one had ever heard of, and maybe the sales clerk at the indie music store kept one-off vinyls behind the counter for him.

I wondered why he caught the bus. If he made such good money like his outfits suggested he did, why didn’t he drive? Did he even own a car? Not many people in Surry Hills did, I allowed, so maybe that wasn’t too strange. I certainly didn’t drive or own a car. I couldn’t afford one, but maybe he could? He’d only been catching the bus for six months now, and I wondered where he came from. What brought him here?

I wondered where he lived. Was it a one-bedroom studio? Did he share a flat? Did he live with someone? I wondered if he was single, spoken for, married. I wondered if he had tattoos, and I wondered what he smelt like. I bet he smelt so good…

And I wondered why I bothered with such daydreams when I knew, even on the slightest chance he might look my way again, that once I told him I didn’t like sex, he’d probably laugh and wish me good luck. He would’ve dodged a bullet and I would have taken one, right to the heart. Again.