One of the few times I yelled at my poor ex-husband was when he innocently said someone saw me cut into traffic. The reaction was so strong that I am sure if someone reported that I had walked naked down Main Street throwing bombs at the stores on both sides, he wouldn’t have mentioned it.
Fast forward several decades and change countries. I no longer delight in anonymity. Today on the bus my neighbor C, a pretty blond, got on one stop later and we caught up on news until we both got off at Eaux Vives.
In the library I saw a woman I used to talk to on the bus as we rode to work. Then I saw Mrs. S, an older woman that we often included in our dinners. Although she was in her 80s, she was as modern as any of us. She loved to travel, but when I saw her last fall she told me, she was slowing down and wasn’t traveling. Then she confessed she was going only to Malaga for Christmas. She is beautiful both in spirit and face.
Today her face was bruised. “I took a tumble.”
“On the ice?”
“Pavement,” she said. She changed the subject to brag that she was about to celebrate her nonante birthday, the Swiss way of saying 90 rather than quarter-vingt-dix of the French. She was with another former neighbor who had agreed to accompany her downtown.
Instead of wishing to be invisible talking to the people I like was a treat.
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