Stealing Gloves

This morning I watched a man leave his gloves behind as he exited the bus, and I didn't say anything. I had more than enough time to process what was happening before he got off. He even stood in front of me for several seconds, waiting for those ahead to get off, giving me time to reflect on what was happening. I had enough time to realize I wasn't going to give him the gloves, to feel ashamed, to wonder why, and still more time after that. It was as though I was in a trance. "Hey friend, you forgot your gloves." Nope.

I had been watching this man behind the protective shadows of my prescription sunglasses for the entire bus ride. He was a swarthy mesomorph in his late forties, not fat but he had a punching gut and a wide-legged way of sitting. His cheeks were flat and smooth and grey and his eyes, which he squinted constantly, looked wet at the corners, as though he'd spent his entire life staring into a cold, hard wind. He was seated with one arm around his girlfriend, a thin, pretty woman prematurely aged by smoking. They were comfortable with themselves and each other. As we got downtown, he made some good jokes to his lady about her needing to get a haircut and the benefits of cutting your hair. He was, in short, a man: droll, threatening and tired. He must have been frustrated when he lost his gloves.

The surprising thing that happened next was that I suddenly found myself getting up, walking down across the aisle, taking the gloves, and returning to my seat. I took the gloves! I put them on; they were comfortable. They're black leather with black cloth on the back and an elegant strap around the wrist. They're nice gloves, I still have them. They might be the nicest gloves I've ever owned. And the only thing I can conclude is that I cunningly stole them from a man I'd coldly observed, admired, and then screwed out of a fine article of handwear. Amazing! When I got to the studio, I showed Ted the gloves, saying, "Look at these excellent gloves I found on the bus."