He speaks to me. Normally I’d have a book open as protection against unwanted transit chats, but I’d forgotten this time. I’d been too interested in how the fat guy up front fits into the single seat, in the (academic) question about the sexual orientation of the black-haired creature diagonally across from me, in trying to plumb the nature of the relationship behind me (did she rock the cradle or rob it?) from conversation alone.

My seatmate speaks and I don’t understand him, but I have to glance at him. Thin face, clean greying frizzled hair radiating from his head and chin. He speaks again, and I can tell it’s about the silver-toned ring he’s showing me, but I still don’t understand him. It isn’t the lingo; it’s his lack of teeth.

I manage to indicate with a nod and a hand gesture that it’s a nice ring but I already have one and don’t want another. I turn away and hope the ensuing quiet will last. Unh uh.

He speaks again. I never saw the movement but now the ring has disappeared and he has a bent postcard in his hand. He’s showing it to me but growing excited and not holding it still; I have to pay some attention to see it.

“It’s a openin’ today,” I make out of his syllables. I look closer. The postcard is about some new affordable housing community … a few blocks south of where we’re passing, in the direction my seatmate is indicating with the card just as we pass, and sure enough, it says it’s opening today.

I look into his face and we smile. I see that he’s either not very bright or maybe damaged, but he isn’t dangerous. He’s going to be a member of the community on the card.

“I’m the first tenant,” he says clearly. His clean toothless gums are pink. Then he puts down the card and gropes at his waistband.

His T-shirt is dark green. He pulls up the hem an inch or so and cups the device that hangs from his belt loop. It’s the size of a Pez dispenser. “My key,” he says.

I heard a snippet of interview with my Representative on the radio recently. Asked what her prized possession was, she answered “my family.” I remember thinking that wasn’t a fair response; family isn’t a possession. I considered what my prized possession might be, and I admitted that I’m so fortunate I have a lot more than one. So does everyone I love. But this man, sitting beside me on the trolley, I think this guy has a prized possession.

He stands to exit the bus at Sanchez. The driver says to him, “Next time use the front door, okay bro?” He nods at the driver’s face in the mirror, he nods back at me. “Been sleepin’ out a long time,” he says to me.

“How long?”

“Fifteen years. 1990.” He steps down through the door to the street.

I ride two more stops. I thank the driver and walk the four blocks to Madie’s place. I’ve been looking forward to this dinner. It’s been almost three months since she and Phyllis and I have been able to mesh our schedules.

Phyllis opens the door. “My Lord, woman: you’re skinny! You look great! How much have you taken off? It’s like you’re ten years younger.” I grimace within but walk into her hug. Plusher than I remember. Madie too is looking plump.

I catch their shared look at me. Eyes slant down and lips sneer up. A part of my heart closes.