Photo by Anna L Conti
People made room for a wheelchair passenger without the usual grumbling. A middle-aged man flirted with a sleepy 2-year-old. Someone else made sure a tourist got out at the right stop: they wanted Hayes, not Haight.
My first seatmate was a woman wearing all white, with big dark sunglasses. We didn’t know each other, but that didn’t keep her from starting a conversation with me. She had a soft voice and told me about her boyfriend, who had been crabby that morning. “I told him I’d go do my thing and talk to him later,” she said. “Because I don’t need that.”
Her phone rang and it was her boyfriend, apologizing.
“He realizes what he did,” she said when she hung up. “And that’s a good thing.” She got out at Mission.
My new seatmate sat down and took a fan out of her purse. It was one of those black metal fans that unfolds and hooks together at the bottom. ”Wow,” I said. “I wish I’d thought of that.” She smiled and fanned herself vigorously, and I appreciated the churned-up air that wafted in my direction.
