Buggy

The seats on the 89 bus are electric-blue plastic, with rows of two gracing the right, and single-file flanking the left. I've been lucky enough to snag one of the singles this afternoon, although, on second glance, the normally packed bus isn't too crowded today. My eye wanders past the weekly banner ads announcing the latest summer-school programs, medical research study requests, and soft drink pitches, resting instead on the elderly woman who has settled in the seat in front of me.

Her clothes are modest, but clean--a straw-colored coat, only slightly frayed at its hem; sensible nurses' shoes catching a rippling pool of loose stocking fabric at each ankle. Her red-mesh tote bag, teeming with vegetables in vibrant greens and yellows, would normally hold my attention, but instead I cannot stop staring at her hair.

Less than a foot away from me, nestled in the crown of her sprayed-and-rolled strands, is a bug. A dead bug--long dead, from the looks of it. It appears fossilized, petrified--a plank of perfectly preserved amber bordered by mere wisps of legs, each a thread-like offshoot. The insect must be at least an inch long, maybe two, and rests, cradled, in the folds of her hair, just where the silver roots peek out, as if it were placed in such an ideal setting for viewing by a curator, scientist, or photographer.

I reach to the tap the woman on the shoulder, then hesitate. I've had my share of awkward moments approaching strangers in the past. I strive to emulate my friend Kathleen, she with her Kansas-friendly smile and twangy accent to match, who approaches bewildered tourists in our guidebook-popular neighborhood with a disarming, "Where ya trying to get?" When I once tried to do the same thing (without the colloquialism, of course), with a clearly lost family of five, I got a host of quizzical looks and an earful of German. I haven't attempted to converse with a stranger since.

The bug's spindly legs, splayed akimbo, seem anchored in place. I look up at the closest advertisement, a poster shouting in bright yellow letters that I could learn Swahili, in addition to more than 50 other tongues, at a local language center. Wryly, I note German among them.

The woman shifts in her seat, clears her throat. The bug doesn't budge from his delicate nest.

I reach out my hand to tap her shoulder. I hesitate. I envision a tussle to wrench the bug free from this silver-blond crown, a mixture of Germanic languages from the old country and new as we attempt to sort out the details, a cascade of peppers and zucchini rolling across the filthy bus floor. In the confusion, I picture the bug disintegrating, like pieces of ash, scattered among each strand of hair. I put my hand back in my lap.

The bus lurches down Broadway. I reach my hand to tap her shoulder again. I'll tell her, I think.

One more stop. Okay, I'm going to tell her.

She shifts in her seat. Now, tell her. From that angle, the bug isn't even visible.

Now.

She rings the bell, stands to get up. I'm frozen. I watch her descend the stairs, take a few steps onto the sidewalk.

I remain on the bus, fraught with propriety and shyness. I didn't tell her.