An uncomfortable bus ride by a one-time GLG (Good Little Girl).

There he is, at the front of the bus where the first three seats
face inward:
he is the inevitable man who sits in the middle
of three empty seats with
his legs splayed out to encompass all three.

He is a biggish man with a broad, expressionless face.
His shirt is half-falling outside of his pants.

My joints are in pain; I can’t hang onto the bus bar overhead.
I can’t even reach it.
I have to sit down.
The two seats to either side of the man are the only ones
available.

I once read
that men feel comfortable
taking up all the space while women
– or the woman who was writing this comment—
crawl up into a much smaller territorial compartment.
I have felt in myself the urge to creep into
that smaller compartment.
This man obviously has no problem taking
up more than his share of space.

I sit, but the compartment is too small.

“Could you please move your leg?” I ask, my tone polite. I’m a
GLG, a Good Little Girl. That generation.
I am always polite.
Except – now that I’m older, sliding toward my
crone phase –
when I lose my temper and the curses
come a’rollin’.

So far I’m polite.

The man shifts his leg a few inches. His leg
is thick. Maybe it won’t fit next to the other one.
But I’m squeezed into a corner with his leg
against mine and
aside from sheer lack of space, I need relief
from this subtle sexual
aggression; at least that is how it feels in
the hint of bile in my mouth and
fist of tension clenched in
my chest, the
anger.

(I remember Gloria Steinem observing how swell
she felt in Japan, how
safe,
walking down the sidewalk,
towering over all the men.)

I will have to watch the next three-seat man to see if
he will move his leg for another
man.

“Sir,” I say, “Could you please move your leg a bit more?”
He grunts but otherwise
ignores me.

This will be a trip of two hours.
If he doesn’t get off soon, I suspect
the stream of unsavory nouns and adjectives
that already have come to party
lavishly
on my tongue
will tango out my lips,
raw and raucous,
rhythmic and a little glorious,
ere this ride is through.