A Small Orbit
I once boarded a bus, paid my fare, and took my ticket from the conductor. Nothing unusual. Just a short ride, two stops, maybe three. I like buses, but my aversion to catching them is a story for another time.
When I was getting off, I passed the small built‑in bin by the exit door. I was about to drop the ticket in, the natural gesture, the tidy gesture, when I thought I heard a plaintive note from the cowering little slip of thermal paper. A kind of don’t. I paused. I hesitated. And the ticket stayed in my wallet.
I didn’t think about it again for months. One morning I opened my wallet and found it curled like a dried petal. The ink had faded to a soft ghost, the date a smudge, the destination a blank. It looked like it had forgotten what it was supposed to be. I stared at it, winked, and said: “You’ve decided to keep your secrets”.
I tried throwing it away. I really did. But every time I put it in the bin, I’d find it later on the kitchen table, or tucked into a book, or resting beside the kettle that only boiled when ignored. It was as if the ticket had developed a small orbit around me, drifting back into my life with the persistence of a shy but determined acquaintance.
Eventually I surrendered and placed it in the bowl on the dresser, the bowl where I keep things that insist on existing. Only later would I understand that the bowl itself had acquired a name: the bowl of persistent things. A button from a coat I no longer own. A key whose lock has been lost to history. A pebble that once seemed meaningful but now simply enjoys the company. Visitors would ask, puzzled, “Why do you keep that old bus ticket?” I’d shrug and say: “It’s not mine anymore. It’s part of the house.” And for a long time, that was the end of it.
Only later did I realize V was having me followed.
✒️ Sigi