Droplets of sweat slither from my cellulite-covered thighs to the back of my arthritic knees, all the way down my varicose calves before settling at my elephant-sized ankles.

The bus is too busy, too hot. I can’t breathe.

My scoliosis is playing up; the lower spinal cord discs rubbing against one another like siblings competing for attention. Pain. Pure pain.

At least endometriosis is not in the picture anymore.

Those “osis” medical terms have made my life hell.

Note to self: find some positive words ending with “osis”. Bloody Greek etymological negativity. Those Hellenes love their drama.

 

You’d think those good-for-nothing-tattooed youngsters would move their lazy behinds to let an old woman sit, but they’re too busy destroying their eyesight on their tiny, full-of-nonsense screens. The rhythm of their thumbs reminds me of a Queen song, but it’s now “We will like you.” There is little rock left in this society. Shame.

Some middle-aged women do offer their seats for still-fertile-and-flanking-it females and those obviously suffering.

Note to self: carry a cane or pretend to faint when taking the bus.

 

Why on earth does it smell like sardines? I slide my right hand higher on the handrail to sniff my armpit. It might not smell like spring—a little garlicky, probably due to the cyst I’ve been told I should remove—but the fish stink is not from me.

Note to self: eat more garlic. It will keep people away.

 

I inhale deeply. Left, right, front, back, and find the culprit. It’s the young man by the door—well, young… younger than me, that’s for sure, but then again, most of them are and don’t seem to appreciate it. The smelly, fishy—either self-serving, lucky, or unfaithful—idiot is wearing shiny white trousers.

Note to self: avoid shiny/smelly. Stick with natural fabrics.

 

The poor lad stinks as bad as Snow White’s breath when the lazy cow finally decided to wake up with a piece of rotten apple stuck in her throat. If only I had some perfume and an old-fashioned handkerchief like the French nobles during Louis XIV’s reign in putrid, toilet-free Versailles.

Note to self: keep something pleasant-smelling in my bag.

 

Is that man deaf? Oh boy, he probably is, being older than me and all—and considering his choice of ringtone. Pathetic. Still, talking with the speakers on while on the bus… get a hearing aid or some earphones… You old tosser.

Can you use earphones if you have a hearing aid?

Oh wait, do I care?

Note to self: get dumb niece to download some music to the tiny phone she forces me to carry around, to block out others’ noise.

 

The woman standing next to me is tall and has ridiculously long hair for her age, and it’s touching my left shoulder and my bare arm. It is soft-ish, but it tickles and I can’t smell her shampoo, which means it’s not that clean, so I wonder if she has lice. What a shame I don’t have scissors in my bag.

Note to self: always carry scissors in my bag.

 

Finally.

I press the stop button and elbow my way to the door. “Sorry.”

I am not.

Move stinky, deafy, hairy. I’m out of here.

 

I trudge along the quiet street and push open the rusty, creaky gate.

Sigh.

Now I am home.

 

I pull weeds, over-water the withered plants as if it could hydrate my soul, and throw dead flowers into the bin before kneeling next to you.

“Hello, my darling.

You were right.

We are surrounded by idiots.”

The marble is cold to the touch.

“I miss you so much.”