About a Boy

This little brown-haired boy was probably eight. He sat next to me, commanded by a grandma who had exclaimed in embarrassingly high notes, “There, why don’t you sit next to this beautiful girl?” I figured the cute boy would want to bury his face somewhere, but he just followed the orders and remained silent. I actually felt relieved that he chose not to yell “she-is-horrible-and-I-do-not-want-to-sit-by-her” in protest to the voice of authority. It seems to me that at this stage in life, kids do not quite understand or care about the social rules which often demand us to restrain from being boldly honest.

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I wondered if he wanted to sit by the window. Did he keep glancing at me or at the world outside? The later hypothesis made me feel like I was supposed to switch seats with him. Predictably enough, just when I was about to make him this proposition, grandma called him up and they got off the bus. As my eyes wandered, looking at nothing in particular, they were caught by the sight of the middle-school boy turning to wave me goodbye. I waved back and smiled, amazed with I don't know what.