The bus wasn't full that afternoon. It was one of those gray days when the light grows dimmer early without really becoming dark. I sat down on a four-seat section, put my bag beside me, and looked out the window.
Two stops later, an elderly man got on and took the seat across from me. He was tall, had gray hair, and looked well-groomed. He wore a red and blue jacket, hip-length, open.
He wanted to close it. His hand reached for the zipper, guided it upward – and missed. His fingers trembled slightly. Not violently, not dramatically, but restless enough that the small metal hook kept slipping past. His head also moved, barely noticeably, a quiet, steady tremor.
He tried again. And again.
I looked and at the same time pretended not to look.
Inside me, a quiet weighing began. Should I say something? "May I help you?" Perhaps I could have simply reached out my hand. But the zipper was low, I would have had to lean forward, very close. A stranger, a stranger's body. Help can quickly become proximity. And proximity to something one doesn't want.
He breathed out, collected himself, tried again. The bus jolted onward, gray facades passed by outside.
I felt not only his effort. I felt my own uncertainty. The fear of doing something wrong. Of embarrassing him. Of making his weakness too visible to him. Or of leaving him alone with something I might have been able to ease.
After a while, he gave up on the zipper. Instead, his fingers felt for the snap buttons on the jacket. One after another he closed them, slowly, with concentration. It took time. But it worked.
No one else seemed to have noticed anything.
When he got off a few stops later, his gaze lingered on me for a moment. Perhaps I'm imagining it. Perhaps it was just chance.
The bus drove on.
To this day, I don't know if I should have helped.
B.
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