Did I just imagine having a conversation with Joyce?  Did we really talk about coffee and ‘getting the door?’  Were we really back at the house discussing the ‘ending’ of my last blog, or was it just my mind ‘tripping’ backwards, as ‘minds’ sometime will do?

 

These questions are bouncing around in my head as I sit in the chair.

 

‘The chair,’ is of course, the chair in front of the window.

 

‘The window,’ is of course, the window in our compartment on the bus, which we are riding.

 

So… what’s real and what’s not real?

 

It’s a simple question that demands an answer, but I’m poorly disposed to addressing it right at the moment.

 

For there is a feeling that has come over me, it’s a familiar feeling that I’ve had many times before, but not one easily described. 

 

Actually it’s a continuation of the feeling I’d had – just before the knock on the door.

 

At the time, it seemed like only minutes ago, I’d described it as a ‘hokey feeling’ that I’d had as the bus was approaching a bend in the road.

 

Now, as the knock comes once again on our door, and I hear Pup restlessly moving around in the upper bunk, I get up from my chair, noticing how ‘clear’ everything seems; the design on the arm of the chair where my hand is, the feeling of heavy air weighing on my shoulders, and the echoing of the knocking, slowly disappearing.

 

I opened the door.

 

She walked in as if she owned the place; early 30’s, maybe 40’s, I wasn’t sure, fleshy and very pretty, with long black hair, eyelashes that looked fake, and crimson lips that didn’t.

 

Taking it all in as I stumbled backwards, back to my chair. 

 

Falling rather than sitting, feeling foolish while trying to appear ‘cool’ - I wave my hand toward the bottom bunk, as a place she can sit, but she remains standing, looking at me.

 

She's wearing an orange and blue smock of some kind and purple, high-heeled sandals.  A cloud of vanilla perfume extends her presence by a couple of inches, bordering on overpowering, but more pleasant than not.

 

“Call me Cherise,” she said, her voice raspy from years of cigarettes.

 

I extended my hand, more in defense I thought, than welcome.

 

Two surprisingly ‘rough’ hands grasped mine, with a firmer than needed grip.

 

While my captured hand was entwined in the vise-like grip, I watched Pup rise from her sleeping position, with a somewhat puzzled look on her face.

 

Letting go of my hand, Cherise sat on the very edge of the bottom bunk, paying Pup no mind at all, as she stared at me with eyes as black as any black I’d ever seen.

 

“Ray.” It was Pup talking.

 

I heard her voice but couldn’t connect it, for the voice was coming from somewhere else.  Turning to face the window, I saw our reflection and it was as if we were at the end of a long tunnel.  I heard Pup say, “Ray, Ray.” “Something isn’t right.”

 

And then I was alone.

 

With - Cherise.

 

She was sitting on the bunk staring out the same window.

 

I shifted in my chair to look at her better, though I wanted to look back at the window, to see about Pup. 

 

Her raspy, yet sexy voice, filled the little room, “I just love the East River at night.”

 

East River?  The look of confusion on my face caused her to shrug, and while smiling at me, she said, “sorry, I just love New York, the East River and all.  And, Queens at night, you know; well, it’s an eerie night-glow.”

 

Slowly my gaze rotated back to the window.

 

And there, as impossible as it might sound, was the East River, and Queens, easy recognizable to me, although I couldn’t tell you why.

 

Never in my life, had I been to N.Y. City.

 

How was I recognizing what I was looking at ….