One Sorry Day
“Ouch!” then “oh, sorry,” I say as something lands heavy on my thigh, then suddenly airborne a centimetre or two before plopping back down on my seat again. Turning my head toward the event unfolding, a woman, swallowed in grocery bags, has planted herself beside me. I reach below to soothe my aching thigh and notice the bag that hit me. Inside were two large cans of Libby’s beans and still partly occupying my space in a feat of imperialistic arrogance. I give the bag a rebellious shove off my lap, toward its empress. I hold my gaze on her, a look that insists she apologize for the damage she just caused. No such luck! She does not even acknowledge my existence, never mind, apologize! I begin to stew as the throbbing pain intensifies from the epicentre of the attack. That’ll leave a Rorschach of a bruise, I tell myself. I am angry. “Why did I apologize? She’s the one who slammed into me!”. Now humiliation is added to my anger. I feel small, powerless. These emotions are what wars are made from. “Do I have a sign on my forehead that says ignore me?… I’m sick of letting others