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You see her at the bus stop quite frequently.
She never gets on the bus, she just stays behind and watches you from the standing ashtray with a cigarette in either her fingers or her mouth. You try to glance at her before you go on but there’s always some kind of barrier between the two of you, whether it be the bus stop wall, the bus window, or your reluctancy. No words aren’t exchanged, just brief nods of acknowledgement with thinned lips. She’s never complete without her cigarettes; you’ve one time seen her call a friend to get them in her room and drop it off at her location next to you. Perhaps a roommate? Before you knew it, a strange, white-haired boy with circle-framed sunglasses was next to her (her boyfriend, you think) and complaining about her smoking then was gone in an instant, like a magician’s disappearing act.
Her voice is a bit raspy, but you think it’s pleasant and mellow. Perhaps it was the cigarettes that roughed up her throat, but it adds that bit of zest. She’s only spoken a couple of words. Not to you of course, you’ve never had the heart to even say a simple “hello” to her. You predict she’s around your age, high school or so. She’s shorter than you by a couple of inches you’ve noticed, just maybe around the tip of your nose or so. Her short, side-parted chestnut brown hair sometimes looks caramelized whenever the sun is out and glazes it with its rays. When she’d glance at you before you got on the bus, you’d catch a glimpse of her downturned, honey brown eyes that almost matched her hair with just a slight swirl of mocha in them. She’s pretty, very pretty actually. You like how her beauty mark is stamped perfectly under her right eye.
Sometimes, you’d snack on the strawberries you didn’t bother to eat for lunch while you await your ride home. You always want to offer one to her, thinking they were ripe and plump enough for a good treat, but your lack of courage stops you. You don’t think that the tartness of the fruit combined with the scratchiness of the cigarettes would create a soothing concoction either.
Your bus usually comes around 3:45, forty-five minutes after school ends and you’d walk a fifteen minute walk to the bus stop, then wait thirty minutes for the bus filled with people to arrive. Cigarette Girl, the nickname you’ve silently given her, comes around 3:30 and there will be fifteen minutes of silence between the two of you before the bus comes.
This afternoon proved different. 4:00 is approaching and the bus still hasn’t come. Cigarette Girl is still next to you as well, smoking what seems her fourth stick. She’s just as quiet as you, just inhaling and exhaling as the minutes tick by. You merely (try to) focus on your book while trying your absolute best not to cough from the smoke that enters your lungs. Cigarette Girl knows you’re struggling, you see it when you hide your face in the musky oak-smelling pages of your book and take swift, quiet cough breaks, then see her out of your peripheral vision from the glass bus stop window blinking at you.
4:15 approaches. The bus still isn’t here. Perhaps you should start walking home? Maybe Cigarette Girl takes the bus after you, that’s why you never see her get on. The courage is small, but it’s there so you use it to your needs after what seems like weeks of not talking to each other. You tap on the bus stop window quietly and capture her attention while gripping the bag of strawberries in the hand she can’t see. The way she slowly turns to you is eerie.
You purse your lips gently and swallow at her gaze, which looks bored but not annoyed. An eyebrow of hers raises, letting a silent signal to go ahead and speak.
“U-um…” you start, clearing your voice of any possible voice cracks that could cause heat to flush over your face. “When does your bus come?”
She stuffs her hands into her pockets. What an odd uniform? Collared black shirt and shorts with black shoes? Isn’t she burning because of the oncoming spring heat? No sweat is visible on her face though.
“I don’t take the bus,” is her simple reply.
Oh.
“A-ah… alright, sorry.”
Silence falls upon your lips again and you bury your face in your copy of The Silent Cry by Oe Kenzaburo. You wonder why she stays here then, burning through half a pack of cigarettes per day just standing at the ashtray.
4:30, ninety minutes after school has ended. You could be watching your show right now in your house clothes by now. How long does Cigarette Girl stay here?
“I think you should head back home,” Cigarette Girl says without looking at you as she digs her cigarette into the tray. “It doesn’t look like your bus is gonna be coming any time soon.”
You’re silently agreeing with her. Though she isn’t looking at you, you nod and begin to pack up your things, stuffing the book in your bag and stand up after a long amount of time to let the feeling run down your legs again. You leave the bus stop and you give your usual nods of acknowledgement again as you pass her, walking towards your usual route home.
You turn back to her briefly and you can see the slight movement of her head turn towards you so you snap your head back as quick as possible to avoid her catching your peeping, nearly bumping into a stop sign.
It takes you about forty minutes to get home, which would usually take you only a ten minute drive if you took the lousy bus and you’re quite tired. Your sister isn’t home yet, so you take this opportunity to take the shower for yourself.
While unloading your lunch bag, you notice you had forgotten the bag of strawberries at the bus stop.
—
Cigarette Girl is back at the bus stop the next day, lighting another cigarette with her usual pink lighter that usually takes her a few frustrated clicks before a flame flickers on.
“Did you get home safely?” she asks after a few minutes, startling you slightly at her sudden greeting towards you.
You look at her through the glass bus stop wall. “I did, thank you. Did the bus ever come?”
She shakes her head, her brunette locks swaying slightly while some of the ashes of her cigarette sprinkles onto the sidewalk. “Maybe your bus driver was sick or something.”
“Probably, my friend who takes another bus said she didn’t get picked up either.”
You do not have any friends at your school.
“You left your strawberries here, by the way,” she reminds you of the still-ripe strawberries you left on the bench that you were planning to snack on while reading the rest of your book later. “Hope you didn’t mind that I helped myself to some.”
A small laugh escapes you, earning a tiny grin from her. It’s small, barely visible from a normal distance but you’re able to see it. “No, you’re okay. I’m glad they didn’t go to waste.”
The bag of strawberries is by your thigh again, hidden from her view. You roll a stemless one between your fingers, hesitant if you should offer her one to her. She seems polite and nice… you don’t think that she would mind if you offered her one, right? But what if she thinks if you’re odd? Who offers their strawberries to strangers? But she seems to have liked yours. The ones you have in your bag aren’t mushy either, you’re sure it would—
“Your bus is here.”
The squeal of the bus tires and hissing of the door makes your head snap up. Cigarette Girl is jabbing her thumb towards the bus and you jump up.
You manage to exchange a quick goodbye to her before the doors shut and you give a small wave to Cigarette Girl through the window, which she gives a two-finger salute back.
Your eyes just manage to spot the forgotten book and bag of strawberries on the bench before the bus turns the corner, which makes you smack your forehead rather loudly and earn a few stares from the other passengers. The habit of forgetfulness is a habit you’d like to get rid of sooner or later.
—
“We don’t have any strawberries, I’ll pack you some blackberries instead,” your sister says as she prepares the last of your lunch when you dash in and out of your room. You pause for a moment and poke your head into the kitchen, watching her as she plops the bumpy, dark blue berries into the typical plastic bag. Does Cigarette Girl like blackberries? Did she eat the strawberries you accidentally left on the bench yesterday? If you left them there, would she eat them? Maybe you should try and offer her one today.
Your sister hands you the lunch bag. “Make sure not to bounce your bag around too much, they might get smushed.”
The school day goes by just as fast as it usually does and you find yourself anticipating Cigarette Girl’s visit. As the cicadas chorus together in the trees, you walk slowly to the bus stop, hoping that your book is still there but to your disappointment, it isn’t. To wait thirty minutes with nothing to do is something you don’t look forward to.
You hear footsteps approaching and the urge to see if it’s Cigarette Girl is strong, but you resist, not wanting to make a peculiar impression on her. You can see out of your peripheral vision that it's a taller figure cladded in the same attire as Cigarette Girl next to you, but they are wearing pants instead of shorts. You bite your lip in slight disappointment, since running through your mind all day were the thoughts of offering a single blackberry to her. You even kept the bag and berries intact so they wouldn’t wobble around and leak their juices.
“Yo, are you Strawberry Girl?” the figure through the glass wall asks.
So Cigarette Girl has given you a nickname as well.
Looking up, you’re startled to see a tall boy, much taller than Cigarette Girl. It’s the same boy who dropped her cigarettes off one time and mysteriously disappeared rather quickly afterwards. The peek of his vivid blue eyes over his sunglasses scare you, if you can even call them sunglasses since you don’t see the rest of his eyes through the lens. Are they just pure black glass?
“I think so,” you murmur.
“Think so?” he asks, questioning your stance on your supposed identity. “Is there a girl you usually see here who’s kinda short?” his flattened hand swings back and forth in front of his upper chest, indicating Cigarette Girl’s estimated height. “Short brown hair? Mole underneath her right eye and usually smoking some kind of cigarette?” His finger points to a place under his right eye. “She usually wears all black and kinda looks tired all the time? Kinda looks bored and stuff, with slight eye bags? A little pale?”
He’s very talkative, very contrasted to Cigarette Girl.
You nod hesitantly.
“Yeah, she wanted me to give you this,” Talkative Boy circles around the bus stop that shields you from the sun and hands you your copy of The Silent Cry, still perfectly intact with that slight fold at that corner of cover to your relief. “She said you left it here by accident yesterday.”
You take the book from his hands gingerly. Talkative Boy looks at the side of your thigh and raises his brows.
“No strawberries today, Strawberry Girl?” he perks up and leers towards your bag of blackberries that you’re snacking on.
“Oh… we ran out of them today,” you say quietly, gripping your book with tender fingers at his sudden closeness.
Talkative Boy hums and circles back around to let the glass wall barrier both of you again. “Keep bringing them, Shoko likes them a lot. See ya.”
Talkative Boy gives the same two-finger salute as Cigarette Girl did yesterday and walks out of your field of vision. You hear a brief whoosh behind you. You look over the glass wall and notice he isn’t there anymore, as if he teleported out of sight. You return back to your seat slowly and open up the book to go to your bookmarked page, but there’s a small, ripped paper in between the bend of the pages. You take the small note out and read it.
Thanks for the strawberries again :D - Shoko
You have a name for Cigarette Girl.
Shoko.
—
You stick to Cigarette Girl for her name in the meantime, as she doesn’t know your name yet. It’s only polite, you insist, considering it’s her first name and you don’t want to be rude. Until she gives you the get-go of letting you call her name by her name, that is.
Your sister had to put up with your nagging yesterday on the phone for a solid five minutes, asking her to buy the strawberries Cigarette Girl likes so much before she came home. She had insisted that she would just do some grocery shopping on the weekend but you lied and said you were craving them for tonight.
She comes home with a plastic bin of ripe strawberries to your delight. You pack them in the bag and put them in the fridge the night before school.
—
Cigarette Girl is still not here by the time tomorrow comes. Neither is Talkative Boy.
You clutch the bag of strawberries in your hand tightly. Maybe she’s late today.
By the time you get on the bus, she still has not come.
—
The day after arrives. She still is not here.
Did she stop coming?
Maybe you’re overthinking it.
—
You approach the bus stop. There is someone near it, but it is not Cigarette Girl. It’s an elderly man with a fedora, reading a book. When you sit down on the other side of the bench, he offers a kindly smile to you. He smells like cigarettes.
The smile looks a lot like Cigarette Girl’s.
—
When you peek through the glass window as you approach the bus stop, the standing ashtray does not have anyone beside it. She is not there again.
—
The space she normally filled is empty once more. The taste of strawberries is becoming bland, it no longer feels tart and honey-like. They begin to taste like metal.
—
The day Talkative Boy brought you your book, Cigarette Girl stopped coming to the bus stop. You stop bringing strawberries. The crunch of their seeds doesn’t feel the same anymore.
They are no longer your favorite fruit.
—
You start sitting on the other side of the bench, away from the glass barrier, where Cigarette Girl usually stands.
—
You miss the smell of cigarettes.
—
You stop anticipating Cigarette Girl’s appearance near the ashtray after she doesn’t appear next to it for a full month and a half. Fruits other than strawberries fill the plastic bag that always sits beside your thigh and coats your fingers with sticky syrup that you wash away with your water in the water bottle in your bag before the bus comes. You’ve read about six books now, you’re currently reading the odd tale of Coin Locker Babies by Murakami Ryo. It’s a thrilling chase of a book, it has you gripping the cover attentively as you dig your nose into the pages, often getting so lost in the words the author inked out on the pages, you stop paying attention to your surroundings.
You can’t believe some people have the audacity to do that in real life, to leave living infants in public lockers and then simply abandon them there? It’s inhumane, very inhumane. One of the main characters, Kiku, takes on a girlfriend with an odd name: Anemone. You ponder why she chose that name, staring at the pages of the book and reading the name over and over again until your vision unfocuses and—
“Your bus is here.”
The voice is familiar. Very familiar.
Taking your shielding face out of the book, you look up and see Cigarette Girl right next to you, standing near the ashtray with her usual black uniform and usual cigarette dangling from her mouth. She offers a small wave and grin to you, as if she was saying “it’s been too long, how are you?”
She’s back.
—
You ask your sister to start buying strawberries again.