Sleeping dogs

By Alice D'Souza

Disclaimer: To quote a friend, "That's a good one."

Author's notes: Hee, dogs. Employees. Whatever. And yay for anyone who catches the Dresden Dolls reference :).

Let sleeping dogs lie.

- Charles Dickens

"See I wrote this - by Lolita." The name rolls off of her tongue as she points her finger at the name.

She almost feels like giggling as she shows the stranger her article on the quintessential youth newspaper. The conversation started out of a slightly sarcastic exchange.

He raises an eyebrow; he's half-amused and half-appreciative.

"Interesting choice of pseudonym."

"It's not a pseudonym," she voice is dead-serious. "Lolita is my middle name."

His eyes are now wide with surprise.

They stare at each other. He smiles.

"Well, nice to know that the book 'Lolita' hasn't stopped parents from giving their kids a perfectly good name."

For a second, he looks like he wants to bite his tongue, as if he's said something inappropriate. He has said something inappropriate.

"Nabokov sure couldn't convince my parents," she replies, mouth grinning and flashing 28 teeth at him, all pearly-white in appearance.

Rebecca is good-humored today.

"So, your father really liked the book then or am I being presumptuous?" He asks with his left eyebrow raised.

Rebecca takes a moment to laugh.

"Well, actually," she smiles. "My dad is half-Russian, half-Indian. My grandfather was Bengali. Lolita or rather Lalita was the name of a heroine of a book called 'Parineeta'."

"So there have been other Lolitas in literature?"

"You're saying it wrong," she shakes her head, the plait of her blond hair swaying with her head. "It's Lali-ta."

He says it again.

She sighs.

"Here," she says. "Do what I do."

She sticks her tongue to the roof of her mouth and edges the tip of her tongue away from the front teeth of her upper jaw. He obliges.

"Now say it with me, Lalita."

This time he gets it right.

"Hey," she lets out a laugh as he smiles. "How about that?"

She nods and turns her face away.

"Well." He says staying quiet for a while, pursing his lips together. "Well, I hope your name comes out in print, more often."

"I hope so too." She nods. "The next time I print something, I won't write it under Lolita, I'll write it under my real name."

He nods out of courtesy.

She sees him lean back on the bus seat, one hand gripping the handle of a brown attaché case.

They feel a little awkward.

She's never really talked to anyone like this. This is really, really odd.

She sighs a little.

"Do you plan to write about energy conservation again?" It's like he sensed her discomfort and he's trying to get rid of the awkwardness.

Their conversation started with the topic of energy conservation. She wanted to know why he was riding the bus and he told her that he wanted to conserve energy (his energy?).

"I don't know." She shrugs. "Are you really riding the bus because you want to conserve energy?"

He chuckles a little.

"No, it's just that it's more convenient for me."

'Don't ever talk to strangers,' her mother warned her when she was 6. She is seventeen now and much more worldly.

"You live here?" She expects the stranger to at one point roll his eyes patiently and answer her question. She can practically hear him pray for her to stop bothering him.

"I'm visiting family." His smile is a little wistful and she can see his eyes cloud with hidden emotion. His eyes are behind the thick frames of his glasses, which are almost effective in hiding his thoughts and feelings.

She is in a very good mood today and the news of a man meeting his family after a long time makes her happier.

There's summer vacation on the horizon, it's supposed to be her pay day and her article was published on her favorite newspaper.

Life is looking pretty good.

She looks outside, leaning her head against the window the bus. There's a grayish blue haze in the sky. The clouds on the sky look like torn pieces of cotton, dipped in blue paint and smeared across the white sky.

They pass by people walking on the pavements and houses.

She turns to him. He's quiet, seemingly uninterested in anything.

They look at each other and neither of them break eye-contact.

"My son, Aaron, won this drawing contest in that newspaper of yours last month ... damn it, I feel like an idiot, I can't even remember the name."

"It's okay," she nods. "Wait ... I remember your son's picture! He draws well."

It's not exactly a blatant lie but six-year olds aren't exactly well-known for their drawing skills. Art contests for group ages 5 to 8 are proof of it.

The man knows that and even despite that, he has this look of pride on his face.

There aren't too many people on the bus. There's a brother and a sister arguing at the back about dinner, there's an occasional sigh or a muffled curse and soft swishing sounds of people fanning with something but other than that the bus is quiet today.

It looks like it's going to rain and everyone hopes for rain.

Rebecca wipes off a bead of sweat that formed on her head.

She doesn't look at him anymore and her hand rests on a newspaper on top of a bag on her lap.

She looks at the bus driver and wonders if anyone listened to their conversation.

She taps her fingers on the bus window. Restless.

When will she get home?

She decides she likes him. He doesn't talk too much, he isn't creepy and he isn't yelling, 'It serves you right for kissing little girls!'

Minutes go by and she keeps looking at her watch. He's quiet on the other side, doing nothing.

She sees children playing on the lawn and smiles, kids. Summer vacation is a great time for all young people.

It's a while before he talks again.

"Is it always like this in Miami?"

She's a little startled, shaken out of her reverie.

"Are you feeling hot?" She feels rather stupid after she says this and her eyes narrow and she straightens her posture.

And he was just starting to talk.

"Well, yes."

"This is really nothing," she shakes her head. "It'll get hotter later on."

Rebecca knows this is nothing because she knows the summer season very well. She knows of hot afternoons when her body would be drenched in sweat and she would shiver out of the heat. She knows of nights when she would leave the windows open and sleep in a T-shirt and shorts, only to find out that it was of no use.

"You know, I watched the weather report on TV and they said it would rain."

"Weather forecast is just a probability, not certainty." She shrugs.

He smiles. "Ninth grade math?"

"You remember?" She asks. She decides that she really does like him.

"I do." He replies in a disarming voice.

"I hope it does rain, though."

"It better."

She catches his caressing the wedding band on his left hand.

Pity.

She sees him impatiently looking at his watch. "How long before we reach our bus stop?"

"It'll be a while."

She swallows.

She takes a look at his attaché again. She can feel the curiosity rise to her throat.

She doesn't speak.

Her parents tell her that there are certain questions you should never ask people like how much do you get paid for your job etc.

So this is where she draws the line. She won't ask him about anything else (she corrects herself, she will try not to ask him any more questions).

They stay silent for a while. You would almost think that they were mimicking each other in their calmness.

Rebecca rests her head against her hand. She's tired and she wants to go home.

She looks at him and his eyes are closed. He's probably dreaming by now. Heat makes sleep come more quickly. She turns away she can almost swear that he looks like someone she might have known. There's an oddly endearing feature about his face and she can't quite point it out.

She makes a mental list of things she's going to buy in the summer vacation - books, jewelry, CDs, birthday gifts (she inwardly groans because even though she isn't exactly selfish, she's going to have to pay with her hard-earned money). And then there were those new films she had to watch.

How did one ever keep track of these things?

She breathes on her lower lip and feels the breath condense on her lower lip. It feels cooler now.

The bus gives a little jolt as it hits a rough spot.

His semi-conscious body leans forward and he glasses almost fall down.

"Damn," he mutters, holding his spectacles back with his right hand.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

There are surprised mutterings and the bus driver apologizes.

He nods and a cell phone rings.

The bus hits another bumpy spot and he once again places his right on his spectacle so that they don't slip off.

"Screw," he mutters as he picks up his cell phone.

"Aaron?"

Rebecca looks away.

There's the faint sound of speech.

"No, I'm fine."

She assumes Aaron is asking him about when he was coming back home.

"Yes, I'm almost ... Leese?"

The pitch of his voice is higher and she is amused at how cheerful he seems all of a sudden.

"Yeah. Yeah."

So that is probably his wife.

"No, it's okay. Ditto."

The bus gives a smaller jolt this time.

"Perfect." He mutters.

He looks at her.

"I always liked transport on air, better."

She looks back at him a little uncomfortably like she doesn't really know what to say.

She doesn't really like flying, not that she's afraid of flying.

"I don't like flying."

"Are you afraid of flying?"

Rebecca opens her mouth to say something amusing but she stops. She never even told her mother much about it.

"I just ... well, I never really had good experiences on flights." She laughs nervously. "I'm not afraid of heights though, I just like buses better."

"You take the bus all the time then?"

"Yeah," she replies. "My friends call me the 'Bus stand Ba ... Girl'. I'm the Bus stand girl."

Her friends actually call her the 'Bus stand babe'. She and her best friend, Amy, have scribbled the nickname at the back of her notebook.

He smiles.

"Are we there, yet?"

She looks outside her window and she looks at her watch.

"We won't be too long."

She talks a little about school and he talks about what he likes about Miami. She tells him about Baskin-Robbins and he tells her that he doesn't really like big brand names.

The wind blows and it gets a little cooler and they get a little closer to their destination.

The bus takes a turn.

"I wanted to be a bus driver when I was a kid." She smiles a little nostalgically.

Rebecca has always loved taking bus rides, she loves looking out the window with a sense of anticipation. She loves looking at houses, trees and schools during bus rides.

"What do you want to be now?"

She doesn't really want to think about a career right now, she's doing okay with her after-school job. For all she cares, she can grow up to be a romance novelist under the pseudonym Christina Carlos.

"I'm not sure, but I wouldn't mind giving the bus driver business a try."

They chuckle.

"What do you do?"

"For a living?"

No, what do you when you take a bus ride?

"Yes." She tries not to be annoyed.

"Well, it usually involves politics."

"You're a politician then?" She leans towards him.

"No, nothing like that." He shakes his head.

"Well, what do you do?"

He smiles a delightful little smile and she figures she would be uncomfortable if it were somebody else. She is uncomfortable, though. His eyes gleam.

"Well, government overthrows, high-profile assassinations."

Well, ha, ha. Gees Louise.

She goes along with the joke and nods.

"So you're a sppyyyy?" She asks, half-amused.

He sucks his lower into his mouth and he chews on it comfortably.

"Is that what they call it these days?" He looks at her with those eyes and they both share a laugh.

She clears her throat.

"I mean no, really." He looks at her again, curious. "What do you do for a living?"

The bus starts to decelerate and they're just a little closer to the bus stop. Everyone (almost everyone) lets out a sigh of relief.

"Well," he says softly with the slightest hint of irritation in his voice. "I already told you."

The bus comes to a halt, the tires let out a screech as they reach the hilt of their friction with the road's black asphalt.

His shining blue eyes have lost most of their humor.

She clutches her bag and she keeps looking at him as the bus finally stops and their torsos jerk forward.

Her eyes are wide- it's almost as if she can see something.

A worried mother, a beautiful young woman, a plane, the announcement of flight attendants. The young woman looking sad in front of the bathroom and that charming seatmate of hers coming up to say something.

And he keeps smiling and ...

She remembers how he tripped later on (she tripped him) and how the name Lisa Reisert was in the headlines.

She almost blinks.

She almost slips off of her seat.

She keeps staring at him as he gets up with all the people in the bus. He holds his attaché and he seems good-humored.

He brushes his brown hair away from his eyes.

He stands up and suddenly, his thin, medium frame looks too large.

"Well, nice meeting you then. Take care, study hard." He nods as he almost breaks their eye contact. His tone is paternal.

"Nice talking to you," she nods.

She attempts to smile but even she is aware that her lips are twisting on the wrong side.

He finally stops smiling and he breaks their eye contact.

There is the rustle of clothing and an army of footfalls.

The intolerable heat returns.

For a second, she can see a small boy with green eyes and a head of full thick, dark hair.

She sits there for a while, still holding onto her bag.

A new batch of passengers start to get up on the bus.

The bus driver calls.

Nah, couldn't be.

"You leaving or what?"

She blinks.

She quickly slings her bag over her shoulder. She nods and gives him a little smile as she moves through the crowd of people and out of the little, white bus.

She steps out into the street a little self-consciously but she shakes her head and she keeps walking.

She hums as she fans herself with the newspaper.

The sky is blue and the air smells and tastes like freedom. Like a nice, long summer vacation.

Owari.

Acknowledgements: Many thanks to my beta who helped me out with the fic, especially the ending. And thanks to my sister and Erin (hey you're in this fic, Erin Aaron :D) for their thoughts.

To the readers: Your thoughts are always appreciated. You know what to do :).