A Really Good Story

She heard a story, once. A really good story.

A story about magic, dreams, and the cosmos.

A story about riches and desires, manifestations and mudras.

A story so beautiful, its words barely did justice.

Do you know that emotion you feel in the top of your throat? Under the tongue, it almost vibrates, the mouth involuntarily salivating as you swallow, hard. Everything is buzzing.

When she heard this story, it was new to her, yet she had heard it before.

Sometimes when she thought of her skull, it was preposterous to think of the little brain inside. It was little, really, compared to other things. Like watermelons or basketballs. It seemed so small, but when she closed her eyes and imagined herself in the middle of it, almost like standing in a big dark room that expands in all directions---its enormity scared her.

She heard the story on the bus, of all places. The man had just started talking from the seat behind her, and she instantly knew it was meant for her.

His voice was calm and after a few minutes, she shifted in her seat, put her back to the window, tucked one knee under her leg, and turned to face him.

His eyes were kind, his words enchanted.

The bus rolled past street lights, elm trees, the sunset. He told her how the ambassador came to have the pen, and who stole the elephant when the circus came to town. He told her the only place to get your dry cleaning done on Christmas Eve, how to purify stream water, and where to park at FunLand to make sure you avoid all the traffic. He told her about the friend on the bus with the little black book filled with golden pages.

Suddenly, the bus came to a stop. There was a commotion near the driver, a child who had dropped a lollipop and wanted to exercise their free will by choosing to still eat that one, instead of the one free of dirt and hair their mother was handing them. The kicking child was escorted out in the arms of their adult as the story continued for her at the back of the bus.

Square chandeliers hung from the ceiling casting a shadowed glow of candles in the ballroom. He told her that there was a room under the ballroom stairs with a hidden door. Its edges matched perfectly with the woodgrain finish, hiding in plain sight. Only two keys were made, hand carved. A man had given him a long treasure map of clues, he had to take a boat to the island of Palawan and answer riddles and, it all felt very cliche, he said.

Inside the room, he told her, was a beautiful chest of drawers filled with crisp two dollar bills, when all counted totaled twenty thousand dollars. It was a secret, he said, again, but he wouldn’t elaborate.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time,” the man said, standing up. “This is my stop.”

“It’s a great story though--I should tell it to you sometime.”

He stepped off the bus and just like that, it was over.

She hadn’t even realized the bus had stopped.

For a moment she just sat there, stunned. She looked down at her phone to see it had been playing this whole time on mute, she was now thirteen episodes further in her podcast.

She saw him out the window, he had a cane but she hadn’t noticed it before. His legs were stick straight and he hinged slightly at the waist, perpetually leaning forward.

The bus hiccuped a small explosion of exhaust and lurched ahead, continuing on its route, like it was just any other day.

He didn’t look up, not once. Maybe he had seen enough.

She watched him fade into the distance. Before the bus went over the hill, he almost looked like one of the miniature figurines she used to play with as a child, making them walk teeter totter from room to room in her doll house, each room a different story, each space saturated with unknowns.