Maggie: A Girl of the Streets Ch. 11 Narrative Response

The Smell Vanishes

The road is rugged, but the driver is still driving fast. Perhaps he wants to finish his job and have dinner. Nobody blames him; perhaps everyone has same thought as he. The bus stops. Only one woman boards the bus at this station. She’s young, but looks very tired. Her eyelids are fighting to remain open widely. Her black eyes are bloodshot like she will fall asleep standing there. However, she holds tightly a bouquet of flowers on her hand. I can smell the fragrance from a long distance.

I gently give her my seat with a complacent smile. Perhaps opening her mouth is a waste of energy, she only glances at me with appreciation in her eyes. She sits and rests her head besides window. I think I’ve done such a good thing today that would bring luck to my next life. I smile constantly and then I fall into fantasy of what my next life might look like.

The blossoms are beautiful, and the smell is stronger because she is close to me.

The bus stops again. An old woman boards, bearly and slowly, with a walking cane. Nobody is being impatient because she deserves our time of waiting. Her legs are shaking as she might fall on the ground at any moment. Wrinkles are over her face, and she is humpbacked. It is hard for me to imagine what she might look like when she was young.

The driver starts to drive slowly, but nobody complains about it. I look around and wonder if I can do another “good thing” today. However, everyone on the seats is either old or pregnant, and I also hear someone pretending to snore. “I cannot wake the one who’s pretending to sleep, can I?” I thought sarcastically.

So I walk closer to the young lady that, and ask: “Could you please give your seat to this woman?” I pointed at the old woman who starts to look at me, “I think she needs this seat more than you do.” I ask politely, so polite that nobody would expect her to say “No”

“No,” but she certainly does not meet my expectation, “I’m sorry.” She answers. Everyone on the bus turns to look at her, except the one who pretends to snore. “Why? She needs help.” I frowned and cannot believe what she said. “I’m sorry.” she repeats, and then she turns her head to look out the window. I tap her shoulders and said: “I think you really need to help this woman. You will be old some time in your life, and you can expect the next generations to give you their seats when you can barely walk!” I shout at her and feel like my morality is refreshed and reached a higher standard.

She stands up and gives her seat, probably because she cannot bear the blames she receives from the whole bus. She looks at me in the eyes, but I realize the hate in her eyes is not on me: she hates this world. And I start to hate those who always gain and never give. The old woman, though, gives me a big smile, saying: “Thank you.”

The petals are withering and falling. I can hardly smell them.

After a few minutes, the young lady walks slowly towards the backdoor. The flowers are still on her hands, but she does not look at them at any moment. Suddenly, she looks at me in the eyes and said: “I’m on my periods.”

“Uh?” I look at her with uncertainty and surprise.

“Menstruation.” She explains and walks out of the bus.

The smell vanishes after her.