A Sad Couple

The #19 is, as usual, crowded for my morning ride. I'm standing near the middle of the bus, my eyes trying to stay focused on the quest for a story.

So many things can happen, and we just let them pass by without noticing. A bird can fly overhead. Big deal.

It is a big deal.

Why that particular flight path, at that particular time of day? What is that bird doing? Is it in pursuit of a tasty bug, or demonstrating the principles of flight to a youngster watching from a nest above? Or could it be rejoicing at the marvel of being airborne - of leaving the earth behind and watching the city bus pass beneath it? Perhaps it's just escaping the mangy claws of an alley cat. I'm trying to train my eyes, my ears, even my nose, to seek out these stories.

A young couple catches my attention. He, dressed in a pin-striped shirt and dark slacks; she, in a black top and skirt with a silver band keeping her hair from falling into her eyes. They are seated beside each other at the front of the bus, on the three-seat bench that faces sideways. From their posture and proximity it is obvious they are together - they don't have the "stay out of my body space" aura between themselves, which most bus travellers exude.

But in their intimacy, they seem sad.

In gazing at the faces of my fellow bus passengers, I commonly see sadness. I suppose that the bus is the one place left in modern society where we can most easily find ourselves left alone with our thoughts. At work, the pressures of the job distract you from your deep emptiness - this is why many people work so much. At home, spouse and children are a constant, throbbing demand on time and energy. And at the end of the day, when all has become quiet, the noise of the TV or a party or a baseball game or a computer fan continues to suppress our sorrows, until we find ourselves thoroughly drained, and head to bed. This is the cycle of the day; the circadian rhythm of modernity.

Those who commute in their own vehicle have their attention focused on the road (well, most of them anyway) and are either chatting up their passengers or tuning in to the news, traffic, weather, sports, and music on the radio. They don't have time to be sad.

In many ways, the passenger on the bus is uniquely equipped to fulfill the human need for quiet introspection. Even the sad ones are being honestly sad.

And this couple looks honestly sad. I assume they cohabitate. I'd guess it was a bitter argument or a personal tragedy of some kind, and they find themselves torn away from their compulsion to work through it by the demands of yet another work day. Their eyes look so, so empty; so lonely. Staring off into the windows of shops not twenty feet in front of them as they whiz sideways down the bus lane, they seem disconnected from reality.

The bus stops for another pickup. A young father and his toddler son board, and the sad couple glance briefly at each other. Their body language is clear - let's get up and give them our seats. There is a strong undercurrent of polity in these two, which unites them even across their sorrow. They stand, and the father thanks them, and sits down with his son. But then the third occupant of that bench rises to leave the bus, and the father scoots over and pulls his son onto his lap, cuddling him warmly in the crisp Autumn morning air. The seats are again vacant.

The sad couple exchanges one of those knowing glances again. "Shall we sit?" asks the man quietly. Wordlessly, she consents and they take their seats back again. Still sad, still with those haunted, empty eyes.

Moments later an old woman boards the bus, and again the couple valiantly surrenders their prime seating for her. They are now standing directly in front of me in the centre aisle.

Ding. Someone pulls the stop cord as we enter the heart of downtown, and random passengers rise from their seats to exit. Two seats open up, but not directly together: one is in front of the other. She turns, gives him another one of those empty yet profoundly intimate looks, and like a pair of synchronized swimmers they fold softly into the available seats. They are now each sharing a seat with a stranger, yet the bond stretching between these two against the grain of the bus layout is almost palpable.

And still, despite all the triumph of enjoying good seats, they are still sad. So very honestly sad.

There's my stop.