#818: The Traveller
She should have sat elsewhere.
I did not like her,
that girl who squeezed herself in
between me and the bench's wooden arm,
with her faux-suede skirt gripping my thigh.
She smelled like the contents of my grandmother's purse -
crushed sucking candies and tissues and discount hand lotion -
and I thought she must be very lonely or European
to press herself so selflessly against a stranger.
Canadians do not touch each other.
She picked at something gummy stuck to her sweater
while I jiggled my leg in time to the clicks of the clerk's tapping pen.