My jacket pocket had caught on the armrest of the seat across the aisle and 4 rows up, and as my hand absentmindedly flapped in the general direction of my mother, I lowered my eyes to survey the damage below the windowsill.
Real time: I sat down reluctantly, not wanting to be on that bus, wanting to be home in bed, not lying to anybody. The rough whisk of my jeans rubbing against the cheap, stained seats reminding me of the soft yellow sheets I was leaving behind and their noiselessness. I saw my mother, filled with hope for me but regret of what she felt she had had to do. Her waving was rhythmic, constant, mechanical. She'd started it with spirit, but lost purpose with the redundancy of the motion until she started to resemble those creepy little cats in smaller sushi restaurants. He mimicked her, they're hands falling in and out of sync but he was as distracted with his torn pocket as she was with the contents of her handbag.
Too many things, too little time: I sat down with a thump, I'm sure, but I didn't hear the noise. I subconsciously remember waving at my mother, but it was a reflex, certainly not something my attention was focused on. I was trying to remember when I had first begun to lie. I couldn't. I knew I had snuck sweets as a child, and when confronted denied it, but my stories weren't lavish then. They were much more direct and I had never gotten caught. It was only when I made larger lies that they ever led me into trouble. Maybe it was the risk that had gave me the thrill. Having the power of knowledge. But I'd always be confused as to why about illnesses, just like the doctor was. I couldn't explain it, and not being able to understand my own motivations is frightening. I remember playing whiffle ball in PE one time and despising the game. I assigned myself to outfield with the intention of boycotting the whole thing and figuring I wouldn't get in trouble if the ball didn't ever come to me. But then it did. This scrawny little kid managed to hit the ball straight between my legs while I was daydreaming about a movie I had just seen. I started sprinting after it, not even noticing what I was doing until after I had thrown the ball to second and gotten him out, being congratulated by my teammates for going so fast as I panted. And I had no control. And that terrified me. I still don't know why I do some things. So I was on the bus waving idly at my mother and she was waving idly back.
Time slows: The sound of a popping seam is one of those noises that forces you to freeze, like the moment just after a glass filled with red wine slips, shatters, and spills over a white couch, shards embedding themselves over the leather. The caution you wish you had shown moments before finally kicks in and your entire body is caught in the horror of what you've just done roughly resembling a Rodin sculpture. This instant I quickly overcame with the shove of the person behind me swiveling around and shoving their backpack into my shoulder and shuffled forward, forgetting who I was, where I was going, who was outside tearfully watching my first moments of involuntary exile. Everything in my being was focused on that single, minuscule act. I could feel the armrest against my hipbone, the noise echoing in my mind, the tug on my opposite shoulder as the mass of fabric had been moved as a whole. I put so much analysis into this flash of time, so much import on the phantom senses that stayed with me that I thought I could remember exactly how that moment felt for the rest of my life. Of course, as soon as I found an empty seat and looked out the window, I remembered my mother and the memories were erased. I looked down to examine the damage and dutifully waved at my mother.
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