Wednesday, 12:01 p.m. Haight Fillmore - Fillmore California

I look again to see if she is muttering to herself or if she was talking on a headset. No headset, she's not in a meeting.

We make eye contact. This means different things in different cultures. It can mean, "Do me," it can mean, "I'm paying attention," but it's the 22, and apparently it means, "Come here, perfect stranger, let's give sanity a run for its money."

Where in God's name are you supposed to look on the bus? If I look out the window the narcissist in me kicks in and all I can see is myself in this zombie lighting. If I look anywhere else, it's either a crotch parade...or this happens.

She gets up from her seat, she's large - larger than a seat allots, and I thought she was getting off, but she scurries over to me, throwing hips so anyone lining the aisle falls into someone else's lap.

She sits down in the now vacant seat next to me. This woman I have never seen before my misinterpreted eye contact only moments ago says, "I didn't see you here, I'm sorry."

"It's cool," I respond.

"I'm so sorry. I would have sat here if I would have known you were here."

And I say, "Well, you're here now."

She mumbles. I considered mumbling too.

She rises two stops later to exit. Holding the rails on both sides she says to me, "You be careful. You never know, there could be some crazies at the next stop. You know what I mean?"

Kindly and plainly I say, "No, I don't."

"You don't?" she asks, swollen hand with four gold rings and hot, pink nailpolish held to her chest.

"No," I say with direct eye contact, "but we're just going to have to live with that."

-photo compliments of Thomas Hawk