Whereupon our Heroine Entertains a Bus (Twice) (Accidentally)

1. This morning, the 147 was more crowded than Paris Hilton's (redacted.)

So crowded, that people began to complain loudly that the bus driver was a sadist. That he enjoyed torturing morning commuters. That He Who Must Drive The Bus could not possibly love, which differentiates him from Harry Potter, who can love and emote and feel.

Our heroine was -- she admits -- not completely sure if the Bus Driver could emote, because she was smooshed in the back of the bus. Her bag dug into a grandmother. Her backside was possibly being groped by another individual. To her immediate right was a man who was massaging his hand. She didn't ask why.

Instead, midway through the ride, she lost her balance and toppled into hand-man, who toppled into Woman Reading Chick Lit, who stumbled and fell into the lap of a large man listening to (Donny Osmond? Proust on Tape? Common?) his iPod.

Our heroine turned red. She started blushing. She panicked. She apologized profusely. She apologized profoundly. She apologized for apologizing.

She left the bus, not looking at hand-man, or Chicklit, or Possibly Proust -- and made her way to work.

2. On the way home, someone asked if she worked for a certain company, based on the logo on her bag.

She spent the next 40 minutes convincing a busload of strangers to attend a show the following evening. The bus people became friends, and decided to sit together. Our heroine felt like she was playing the role of matchmaker, and started humming Fiddler on the Roof, at which point she received stares, and stopped.