C THE TOUCH

THE TOUCH ?

Betty took the seat closest to the door. She dreaded the bus. "Too
closed in," she thought.
The daily ritual of riding the bus caused her too much anxiety.
She glanced at the man next to her. He sat reading his paper.
"It's always like this," she thought. "They just sit and read
newspapers or books. They don't worry about being so close to anyone
else. The touching is the worst of it. If they accidentally touch you,
it's terrible."
Betty sometimes contemplated walking the twelve blocks to her
apartment. Her legs were sore and tired from standing all day. She just
couldn't make such a change. Change frightened her.
"Excuse me," said the man next to her, "excuse, me, but could you tell
me when we reach 8th street please. I'm new here and, well, I don't
know how far it is, up this way."
"Yes, yes, I'll tell you. We're almost there. Yes, here we are. You
must jump up quickly and pull the cord so the driver will know you want
to get off."
"Thank you, thank you so much." He squeezed her arm as he said this.
Then he stood up and disappeared.
Betty sat still. Motionless. Wondering. "He touched me," she thought.
He touched me and I don't feel faint. I don't feel sick. He touched me
and, and, I feel . . . well, I don't know . . . I just feel."
The bus passed Betty's stop. She had to walk six blocks back, in the
opposite direction. She didn't notice the pain in her legs.