I look up from my frosted sole and there’s a kid, no more than six old, staring at me with his forehead pressed against the cold half-window of the bus. He wants to run away too. To Chuck E. Cheese’s. I smile in a way that I imagine to be non-threatening and he smiles back, abruptly detaching his forehead from the window. With my attention, he immediately raises his hands to his chest, one hand closed into a tight fist, the other an open palm. He pounds the butt of his fist on the open palm three times and throws scissors. He keeps smiling. Then he does it again.
One, two, three: Scissors.
Spontaneous roshambo. I pull my hands out of my pockets and mimic his fist and palm. I alter my stance to make it more athletic, like I’m about to return his tennis serve, and he gives me his serious game face. One, one, two, two, three, three: Scissors Scissors. Naturally, we both throw scissors the first time. And the second time. The light turns green and his bus starts to roll. His face flashes urgency, seconds before I shred his paper with a third consecutive scissor and suggest to myself that I can probably stick around for at least another year.
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