My Grumpiness vs. His Grumpiness
Grumpy swore at the newcomer, and humphed himself over a few inches, glaring the whole time. He didn’t stop muttering threats to himself — intimidating, cuss-filled threats — while the geek sat down on the now-vacant seat and tried to not let his legs cross over the imaginary line between them.
One day I was grumpy.
It was a long day, a tired day, and I had to take several Metro buses to get home. I waited for the last one for 40 minutes.
Grumpy.
I entered the bus and there was a row of three seats on the left with one guy (“Grumpy”) in the middle kind of sprawled out. There was another seat just beyond that which was open (and wasn’t facing to the side, which I don’t love) so I sat there. The poor sap behind me, though, politely asked Grumpy to move over.
Grumpy swore at the newcomer, and humphed himself over a few inches, glaring the whole time. He didn’t stop muttering threats to himself — intimidating, cuss-filled threats — while the geek sat down on the now-vacant seat and tried to not let his legs cross over the imaginary line between them.
All of my frustration from the day focused in like a laser. “Be nice on the bus!” was the message my eyes were blazing, and I was staring at Grumpy hoping he would — daring him to — meet my gaze.
He did.
For a brief moment my grumpiness battled his grumpiness like minor gods in the ether. Then he metaphysically whimpered and he cast down his eyes, and his grumpiness left him. I rode home the rest of the way staring at the side of his head, and he sat quietly with his knees drawn together to make room for others.
