Flirting With Scrabble
Erin Douglass
Tonight, halfway through my bus ride home, a guy plunked down beside me and pulled out a book.
I hardly noticed. Deep in a game of Scrabble — my latest Palm Pilot-enabled addiction — I tapped away, oblivious to fellow riders.
Blocks later, I looked up, neck aching, eyes stinging, game won. The guy was still there, reading away. Or at least he was pretending to read. The moment I glanced over, he looked up. Embarrassed, I returned to my Palm.
I started a new game. The guy shifted, brushing my arm. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. Was that on purpose?
It was then that I realized that my neighbor wasn't a "guy" so much as a "boy." Five foot four, maybe five, he wore jeans, a t-shirt and the requisite baseball cap, flipped backwards. He looked like he was about 18.
And that book he was reading? He hadn't turned a page for blocks.
Then the idea dawned.
He was flirting with me.
Not flirting in the active, chatty, obvious sense. This was flirting in the surreptitious, holding-your-breath, not-sure-what-to-say sense.
I am not a man magnet. I am a weirdo magnet. While other women get compliments, long stares, even whistles, I get babbling, crossed eyes and drool.
Until this evening.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cringe, be amused or annoyed. I chose amused and sat back, one eye on my Scrabble game, the other on Mr. Young.
The blocks rolled by. I waited for a "U" so I could use my "Q." My neighbor bounced his right knee, as he shot me glances and occasionally remembered to glance at his book.
Then, around Western Avenue, I got an itch on my scalp. Not just a tickle or tingle. This was a hot, screaming, larger-than-life irritation that demanded immediate attention.
Now I am rarely self-conscious about scratching body parts — the uncensored ones — in public. But there I was: squirming at the thought of scratching my head. What if it looked like I was fluffing my hair? Primping like a girl? Flirting right on back?
I debated. My head burned. Was the itch spreading? Just scratch it for Chrissake! No, he's looking over. I can't.
Eyes watering, I finally gave in, reached up and scratched my head, unlodging hair that had been tucked behind one ear.
My neighbor stretched — one of those high, long, obvious numbers usually reserved for first dates. Then he turned and looked at me.
Amazed that I had inadvertently pulled off the mother lode of flirty-girl techniques (which inspired his own flirty-boy response), I smiled and looked out the window.
This was kind of fun. Too bad I'm married.
Finally, as Fairfax Avenue approached, my young friend made moves to leave. He slid his book in his backpack, flicked something off his jeans and made a big show of pulling a transfer from his pocket.
I looked straight ahead, watching the whole thing. Would he say goodbye? Give me his phone number? Or just dash off and never look back?
When the bus lurched to a stop, the boy stood up and took several steps forward. Then he twisted around, caught my eye and gave me a shy grin.
I couldn't help myself. I smiled right back.
When I returned to my Scrabble game, I found the "U" had arrived. "QUEER" I typed onto the little screen.
I laughed out loud.
This dance between strangers on the cross-town bus is indeed strange and surprising.