Faces

"What's so funny?" Dr. Nrwal asked.
"Everything," I said, "sincerely, everything."
"That's a lot to find funny, Mr. Johns."
"I have a great sense of humor, Doctor."

Riding home on the N47, I couldn't shake loose this tiny cluster of giggles that had lodged itself in my throat. Every so often, a bit would break off and escape as a clipped, spasmodic snort, but for the most part, the giggles just sat there simmering like a slow-cooked mash somewhere between my chin and chest. An elderly black woman smiled at me from across the aisle.
It was my 30th birthday and the doctor had just informed me I was—wholly, utterly, dismayingly—healthy.
The bus stopped and lurched forward at regular intervals. I let my body go limp when the driver hit the brakes and I bounced around like an unstrung marionette. The elderly black woman smiled a little more weakly. I found the skin around her mouth to be exquisite.
Outside, the snow was still falling. None of it was sticking. It was too warm. The snow instantly became whatever it is that it becomes between ice and water—a great big slush that permeated the stitching of your boots, slowly freezing you from the ground up. It inevitably ruined your day one precious calorie of heat by one.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and let my breath fog up the outline of my face. Just then, I became so intensely nostalgic for the tiny crater where my nose now was, that I imagined the bus suddenly skidding off the road, swerving to miss pedestrians before finally flipping over onto its side, disfiguring me once more. Possibly, the crash could tear the flesh of my nose off my face. At very least, I could pop an eye, its gelatinous innards running a satisfying streak down my jawline.
Still leaning against the glass, I let my vision focus on my reflection. So blue, my eyes. So smooth, my skin. So flawless, and yet so vile. I banged my head against the glass a little more furiously than I had intended. The elderly black woman shuffled her feet under her.
"Excuse me, young man?"
"I'm sorry, did I disturb you, ma'am?"
"No, I don't mind. God knows I feel in my heart like banging my head against the wall for days sometimes. I just mean, are you okay? It seems to be that nobody's ever asking anybody if they're okay these days. It's like you could be walking down the street on fire and people would say, 'Oh, that old schtick,' and they'd keep on walking just the same as if they hadn't seen anything at all. But, young man, you look distressed! You really do. I know you'll probably say you're okay, but I can see for myself. You are certainly not okay."
"You're right ma'am. I've just been feeling a little out of sorts for the last seven years."
"Oh dear. Seven years, you say? Forgive me, if I'm wrong, but are you involved in..."
"Yes, ma'am."
"My God. I've never seen one like you. You're stunning."
"Yes, ma'am. I know. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
The bus stopped abruptly.
"This is my stop, ma'am."