Bus Stop Angel

 
 I'm sitting in the bus shelter, crying. The man who was sitting on the bench when I arrived jumped up when I started sobbing, and is standing as far away from me as possible. He's probably wondering if I'm going to have a full-scale breakdown. I just hope he doesn't call 911. That would be too embarrassing.

I can just imagine the conversation.  "Hello, Ma'am. We're here to help. Can you tell us your name?"

"Ellie." Sob, sob, snort. "Short for Elizabeth. Elizabeth Taylor, but not the one, of course, because she's dead and it would be just too bizarre, but her name lives on, and that's why I go by Ellie."  Deep breath through the nose, out through the mouth, exhale, let it all go. Another flood of tears, dissolving my mascara. Fumbling vainly for tissues in my purse. Do paramedics carry tissues? They can start an IV or re-start a heart, but do they have a cure for melting mascara?

"Ma'am, can you tell us what is going on? Was someone bothering you/"

"Alex. My husband. He's got OCD and wants everything in its place at all times, and it drives me crazy." Gasp. Snort. More tears flooding my face, mascara staining my blouse. Why didn't I get the waterproof kind? Alex told me that I should, because I’m prone to get emotional over any kind of sentimental trivia, but of course I had to prove him wrong. And now I've proven him right again. How in the name of every demon in hell am I supposed to put up with a spouse who is right all the time? That's his hobby -- being right. He researches feverishly and spews out facts and statistics and tells me exactly how many evil microorganisms are lurking in our filthy bathtub, and I tell him the cleaning compound only kills 99.9%, so it's better to leave them alone instead selecting the strongest ones to create a superstrain that will kill us one day, but he says it doesn't work that way, and would I like to watch the computer simulation that he has just put together about bacterial reproduction?

The stranger is staring at me now. Was I muttering to myself again? I sit up straight and try to look normal and sane, even though I probably look like a rabid racoon.

He clears his throat. "Are you taking the 918 bus? It should be here in seven minutes or so."

"I think so,” I say casually, as if nothing unusual were happening. “I don't know. My husband just texted, wondering where I am." I was going to meet my friend Mattie at the West Ed for coffee, but that would be a lousy idea because she'd take a picture and post it on social media. But I can't go home until I get my head straight, so I have to go somewhere, unless I want to sit here all day and startle unsuspecting transit users.

He hands me two tissues. His eyes are kind. I start crying even harder.

He tears open a small plastic envelope and pulls out a pre-dampened towelette. After I settle down, he starts wiping my face, gently. I blow my nose with one of the tissues, and dry my face with the other.

"That's better," he says. "Much better."

The 918 bus arrives, stops, disgorges two passengers. My rescuer hesitates.
 
“Coming?” he asks.

I shake my head. "Go ahead. I'll be all right."  

"Are you sure?"

I want him to stay because I need to talk, and I know he's nice enough to listen. But enough is enough.
 
"I'll be fine," I say. "Thank you."

He nods and walks to the curb. He looks back just before he steps on the bus.

"Go home and talk to your husband."

I wave. The door closes. The bus huffs and merges into the flow of traffic.
 
I sit, wondering what to do next.

Marriage has not been everything I dreamed. If I knew what I know today, I wouldn't have been so quick to grab the diamond ring. I would have insisted on couples counseling and a full physical exam.

Alex is only 32 and needs a heart valve. I want him to get one of the synthetic ones because I think it's wrong to raise animals for human transplantation. He says the pigs have to die anyway -- where do I think my morning bacon and Easter ham come from? One of his mother's friends has a synthetic valve and it's noisy -- you can hear her heartbeat halfway across the room.  Do you really want to live with that endless noise? he asked. Logical, as usual.  

Maybe it wouldn't be that bad. I might have trouble getting to sleep, but at least I'd know that he's still alive.

The stranger's voice echoes through the emptiness in my heart.. Go home and talk to your husband.

I've tried that. Is there any point in trying again? He has an answer for everything.

Go home and talk to your husband.

Suppose I did that and we clicked the way we did in the early days and it turned out that we were soul mates after all, and then he died. Wouldn't that make everything harder?

Damn it, I love him so much, even when he's a pain in the butt.

Then it hits me. While we’re arguing g about bacteria, eye shadow, and the merits of medical technology, we are wasting precious time. We have to stop bickering over irrelevancies and start talking about life and death and the fact that we're both scared shitless.

I pull out my phone. I'm going to make a counseling appointment and then go home and tell Alex about it. He'll probably see the logic in that. If he doesn't, I'll go by myself. I need help and I'm going to get it and maybe Alex and I can learn to support each other in sickness and in health and everything that goes with a lifetime of partnership.

That stranger may not know it, but he was my personal angel today. When Alex and I get our shit sorted, maybe we can become someone else's angels. That would make everything worthwhile.