The Dead Seagull

By Miguel A. E. Betita

( With thanks to Anton Chekov, and Gerald McCarthy)

(c) 2000

I watched her, unabashedly, from the corners of my eyes. She was Korean, or quite possibly Chinese or Taiwanese --yes, there is a discernible difference; it's all in the eyes and cheekbones. She wore black dress pants with a tan cardigan sweater over a white cotton shirt. All very sensible clothes, I noted, nodding my approval to no one at all.

She sat there, in the window across the aisle from mine, as other faceless, non-descript passengers boarded the bus, and shuffled their way by. I felt my heart, already in a dizzying tango tempo, tighten in my chest as she took an elegantly-crooked finger, and tucked a loose bang neatly behind her ear.

Noisily, the bus pulled away from the curb, and I nearly sighed aloud in thanks, for no one had sat in between us. She reached into her bag, and pulled out a thick hardcover and sensible-looking glasses. She looked up, and catching me looking at her, smiled politely before turning her overhead light on and slinking further towards the window, if that were possible.

"What book is that" I asked, feeling the barrier was somewhat broken between us when she smiled first.

She gave a slight start when I spoke, but held up the book anyway, her finger marking her spot.

I nodded and said, "'The Dead Seagull' by Anton Chekov, hmm?"

She only nodded.

"I've read that. It's a shame the two don't wind up together, isn't it?"

With an exasperated sigh, she pushed her glasses further up onto the bridge of her nose. "I wouldn't know," she said, "But I certainly don't sympathize with the guy in the story now."

And then she went back to reading her book, and I turned my head to see what was outside the window.

THE END