I think it might be dangerous that when I drive I don't remember how I ended up home, or to another specific destination. That's why I decided to ride the bus tonight. I can't help but cross my legs in the most "unladylike" fashion. I need my body close. There seems to be something completely unnatural about crossing your ankles. It gives me the sensation of wearing shackles, so at age seven, I swore it off. The lady next to me keeps tap tap tapping her Keds and I wonder if she caught the annoyance I just brushed off. Some ad agent must be making loads off of the over-50 set and their absorbed implied practicality of Keds. Keds, the everywhere shoe! I keep avoiding my reflection in the window opposite me. My stomach lurches at my appearance these days. Aunt Louise not-so-gently points out how "my hourglass figure has become more of squishy center." Louise is an opportunist. Once a girl with an overdose of freckles, she married, divorced and now lives with her wealthy boyfriend Bert. Bert owns two Wash-and-Gos and likes to mow the lawn--he probably just likes to get away from Louise. But what do I care what she says, she steals sugar packets from buffets. "Where did you go?" he leaned forward and whispered. "Excuse me," I answered half-dazed from a sugar high the Sweet N Low packets caused. "You seem like you had enough time to visit a new city and the gift shop in the hotel," he guffawed. Some how I had totally overlooked this figure on route to the west side of town. I'm known for keen observation, so this was distressing. He couldn't be more than thirty-two, thirty-five at the absolute most--I also have a terrible knack of guessing the incorrect age. He looked rather bemused and this caused me to stiffen. I hate when people think they are more intelligent than I am; although they probably are, but I don't want THEM to know that. Average build, supposed average height (his limbs did not grant the viewer any sense of awe at their length) and generic brown hair. Besides the curve in his wide mouth, the only other standout were his hands. Who sits with their hands clasped, pointer fingers touching, positioned upwards, at attention. It seemed like they were humanized antenna. I was waiting for him to walk towards me, so close as to breathe on my ear, and have his fingers touch my neck. A makeshift getting to know you. Like Ants. "Did you travel to the town nearby too?" he asked. "I seemed to have lost you oh so quickly." "I don't think I follow." I said. "You seem to be watching your thoughts like a movie--so engrossed," he explained. "You only looked away to stare down the lady wearing the Keds." I laughed a little on the inside at the supposition that he might refer to her as the Keds Lady too. "Well, what am I supposed to do on a bus?" I added defensively. I had come back to my senses. "Say my grocery list aloud?" "You would look much prettier with your hair back," he blurted out, almost embarrassed. "I'm sorry, don't get me wrong, it's beautiful, but we can't see your face." One thing I can't stand is someone complimenting me,especially someone I don't know. It seems so unnecessary and fake. "Well,the next time I get ready for the day, I'll call the man from the bus and ask him how I should present myself," I said, rather loudly, in one breath. "How 'bout it? Besides, I'm no lady in the red dress." "It's Henry, and what is this about a red dress?" he asked. Throughout the past three months, I've concocted a rather concrete theory in my opinion. The idea of the lady in the red dress. The public consciousness is not unfamiliar with the concept of "The Lady in Red." You have to go no further than the soft-rock stations your mom listens to hear cheesy songs about this muse. Most of my life I hated and was even annoyed by this woman. She inspires songs, characters in movies--besides the classic Hollywood archetype, you have the modern day speeches, from a woman, complaining about a man's ideal of escape encapsulated by a female (See Internal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind). She steps out of movies and dances out of songs to present herself at your current haunts. Men run into things staring at her and young girls, a conscious effort or not, copy her. She is self-confidant, creative, learned and most notably, beautiful. Oh, and she looks great in red. I will never be this girl. A bit disappointing at first encounter with this revelation, but now I wear it like a favorite cardigan or shoes. I guess I see it as caste system without the whole religious application. That is their position and I have mine. I will wear black,green,gray, and brown--they will slip into red. Everything is effortless. I've had to hone my skills in sarcasm and self-deprecation. After I explain this to Henry is such a fashion in which I never deliver to strangers, he laughs. Laughs, initially, heartily so the Keds Lady turns and scoffs, but then quietly to himself for a good thirty seconds. From embarrassment, anger or early menopause, I don't know, a flash of scalding heat slaps my cheeks which causes me to grit my teeth. I stare up because during internal fits I never know what to do. "Please let this be my stop," I hope. I try to exhale with out blowing a toupee off. I'm incensed. I don't want to look at Henry, let alone see him in my periphery. "West Main," the driver yells. Thankgodthankgodthankgod. My jelly legs manage to harden and take me to the front of the bus. "Wait, what's your name," Henry yells. I cannot manage to say it. I turn back to step off this bad memory I'll hopefully erase with Sangria later. "Bye then, my lady in the red dress," he announces smugly. I continue to greet the pavement that seems too real for someone that should be floating. I look up and see Henry. Curved grin. I'm sure he says that to all the girls. | 
