Adrenaline and Strangers

A hand tugged lightly at my shoulder in a gesture I felt on a neuronal level: “Move back.” The bus was flying along Sixth Avenue at a faster speed than usual; when it honked in alert that it was zooming at those of us who were hanging off the corner of 23^rd Street, I didn’t move. Or look. People in New York wait in the street to cross, huddled near corners. Buses make diagonal, curb-aimed trajectories to arrive at their stops. This one did it like a maniac.

The arm that reached for me may or may not have saved my life.

Warmth flooded me as I looked at the man who’d done this. He was handsome in a Javier Bardem way—well-polished glasses and gray scarf. And he’d done this gesture likely out of reflex, just as my father did whenever the car stopped short when I was a child, even after the mandatory seat belt law went into effect. I smiled at him and said thank you. I said, “I heard it, but didn’t think it would come so fast.” “I know,” he said. Then we crossed the street and I watched him veer uptown as I walked straight ahead and down into the subway.