Normal 1

10:40 03 September 2013
The #9 Bus
Portland, Oregon USA

He was reading.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Piles of white copy paper bound together; bold black print.
Like it was normal.
But how could it be normal?
Dark brown eyes and hair; a face thousands of people would recognize instantly: how could he act so normal?
Sitting on the bus, near the door, reading: like it was the most average day, like it was the most normal thing: like he was normal, like he was average.
And no one bothered him.
No one stared.
No one gaped.
This was normal.
Mostly, I’d like to think that I was normal, too.
Except that I, alone, was staring at him, astonished by his very presence: catching flies in my mouth. I was glad that he didn’t notice me; that he was too engrossed in his script to bother looking up and across the aisle. He definitely would have seen me then.
But he didn’t.
He was just reading, lips moving subtly behind the page as he rehearsed to himself. He didn’t notice me, and even if he did I doubt that he’d care either way. He’d probably be used to loons like me staring.
Then, two stops later, he stood and exited.
It was an average day for him.
And now, it had to be an average day for me too.