"Do You Have the Time?"

My title today is the question the mid-30s native lady seated beside me asks.

I pull back my jacket sleeve and stretch my wrist out in front of her so she can read my analog watch herself. She nods and thanks me.

"I guess I could have just looked at it myself and told you," I offer. "But it always takes a few seconds to figure out the time. I miss my old digital watch. It was much easier, and it had a calculator and a calendar on it, which was really handy if I wanted to figure out what day of the week November 11th falls on, or something like that. Which I often need to do. But maybe that's just how I process the world."

She pauses, then lets out a slow, "O-K," inflected with an unspoken "whatever."

"I kinda need to wear this watch though, as my wife got it for me."

"Ah," she says, then elaborates. "I needed to know the time because I need to be at my nail salon before it closes. I don't know if I'll make it. I could maybe go to another place closer."

I notice a nail salon out the window as the bus pulls up to a stop to load a large group of passengers. "There's a place right there," I point out.

She seems hesitant. "Should I?" she wonders, almost getting up. "It's probably all Africans and they'll give me those long curvy nails."

"Rowr," I say, making a clawing gesture like a cat in a fight. She laughs. I add, "If you're more comfortable with your old place, I wouldn't risk somewhere new."

"But I've got to get my nails done before tonight, or I won't feel like a woman," she responds, as the bus pulls away from the stop.

"That's something I can't relate to," I say.

"Guys can still get manicures and pedicures. It doesn't mean you're gay."

"Oh, I know, it's probably good for my hands," I say, holding mine up and inspecting my cuticles. "I've just never seen the need to get one."

"You have nice hands," she says. "But I know this one guy who is real femmy. His parents are super-rich and he still lives with them. He plucks his eyebrows super-thin, and his girlfriend has $8000 implants."

"See, I really can't relate to that kind of thing," I reply. "That sort of living just seems shallow. I prefer people who are genuine and authentic."

"Mine are real," she says, opening her jacket for me to get a closer look at her... ahem... chest area. My peripheral vision confirms that she is wearing a shirt, but I keep firm custody of my eyes. "Oh, you can look," she says. "I know you're married, but it doesn't matter."

"I'm not going to look," I say, laughing to mask my slight discomfort. "You're making me blush."

She laughs too.

There's my stop. Thank goodness.