The man on the bus

7 am. Every day of the week. He never missed his bus, because that isn’t who he was. But then again did anybody really know who he was? He had this unique gift in which if you spent 24 hours Locked in a room with him he would come out with enough ammunition to write a New York Times bestseller about your life, all aspects of it. Your first kiss, the first time you had your heart broken. Who you want by your side when all your dreams come true. It wasn’t that he was extremely special or that he had breathtaking intellect. He just paid attention. And because of that, because he was so attentive to your every word it always just poured out to him. You would never realize that you didn’t know anything about him outside of his first name and that you met him on a bus at the same time everyday. Some people knew this about him. And the most astounding thing is that even though they knew they never pushed to know him because they would realize what he did, it didn’t affect his ability to make you feel heard. Someone who was interested in your life in the inner workings of your mind it was a rarity that you wouldn’t want to contaminate the pseudo-friendship with something as irrelevant as knowing any of his truths because he kept you at a arms length but you clung with both hands nails dug into that arm. He was a simple looking man, he would sit 7 rows back on the left side as you faced the back of the bus. There was nothing special about the seat in particular but he always sat against the window. Maybe it was because it was easier to have people sit next to him because even though he wasn’t a mastermind, he paid attention. He knew that the probability of someone wanting to sit next to him was greater if there wasn’t any initiative, any.. obstacle no matter how small even if it was just to ask him if anybody was sitting there. That seat against the window. Or to climb past him to sit there and to ultimately be trapped for the duration of their ride. It was something small, but little things are the big things in the affairs of strangers. He didn’t know if he loved his job or he loved living in the city having to take the bus and hold his briefcase in between his legs. But then again he had too. He could have as easily taken a taxi or owned his own vehicle but there was something about the interaction with strangers that fueled him through the rest of the day, a natural energy that he could manipulate into life force and guide him through his life. He was just a man, an observant man but a man nonetheless. I’d be lying if I said I really knew anything about him but he knew everything about me. And anybody who was lucky to have the aisle seat in the seventh row as you look to the back of the bus. Even though everybody subconsciously looked forward to being the inhabitant of that seat so that they could tell their ambitions and triumphs, and even their greatest failures, not because he would take all of the pain away or because he had a solution but simply because he would listen. And nothing else. Weeks had passed and occasionally someone would realize that the seat. 7 rows back to the left as you stand towards the back of the bus was empty and every now and then two individuals who had once known this man, well as much as anybody could have will converse about him. About his wonderful gift to make you feel like the only person in the world when you talked to him. Not often but sometimes one of them would usually be inspired to sit in that very seat and listen. To be someone with all that anonymity and touch so many lives. The man was the best friend they ever had known but also the greatest stranger. He was the epitome of what made life beautiful and whoever, wherever he is or was, I’m sure it was engulfed in beauty because that’s what his goal was. In life and in death he was a beautiful friend but even more, the most beautiful stranger.