We’ll part ways, and I won’t see him again

It’s him again. The warm courtesy light showering on him in the service van is enough for me to make out his angular jaw, pimple-covered cheeks, and bobbing Adam’s apple. There’s only one person left before the van leaves. He’s filling that in, and that space is next to me. There are three rows in the van, each with four people. I’m in the middle row, sandwiched between two people. The woman to my left scoots further until she’s squeezing herself to the window while I move to right, so we can all make some space for him. He plops himself first then his bag in his lap. The driver slams the door shut and revs the engine. We leave a few minutes later.

My skin buzzes in anticipation, but I don’t know what for. We haven’t talked to each other ever; the only passing conversation we’ve had is the brief recognition in our eyes when they meet, not even a nod. The driver turns off the courtesy light, so we’re basking in the dark and the headlamps of the cars passing by. I sit tautly, or my body does automatically, and hug my backpack to my chest, unlike him, whose bag, almost flat and filled with air, lies peacefully in his lap.

We both have our earphones on and direct our gaze at the driver’s window, watching the winding road change every turn and descend. Then, our arms brush, and I inhale quietly. I swallow, drying my already dried throat, and pretend to listen to the music playing in my ears. I take a peek and see his head dangling. He’s in a nap. The brush is an accident. My skin feels warm.

I know I won’t say a thing. His clothes don’t fit me because mine is three times larger than his. My arms are rounded, and his are sculpted. He’s an inch shorter than I am, but his shoes have shorter heels than mine. His pants are loose, and mine try to stretch around my thighs. And his skin: it’s light, almost cream. Mine is burned, like a meal left for too long in the oven. I can take up space for two people when I sit down, and he’s the standard. He can pull anyone he wants, and what I want ends in desire.

I don’t watch him, but the pimples on his cheeks are no longer bumps; just red marks waiting to start fading. I look ahead again towards the driver’s window and see a familiar road. In half an hour, we’ll arrive at our stop, all of us. We’ll spill out of the van, him with his bag and me with my thoughts. We’ll part ways, and I won’t see him again.