Randall left work early again, feeling ill. Nothing definitive, a general fatigue, a general malaise—that was the word, although he’d never used it before. If he’d stayed in his chair another minute it would have required an army to get him out. He didn’t know where he belonged, but he didn’t belong there.

The bus was unusually crowded for the time of day. He wondered if there might be a concert or some such event. He found a seat quickly and hunched forward, trying to shut out the pack. But there were just too many of them, jostling about, not exactly noisy, but murmuring. That constant murmur. And they smelled: rank body odor and cigarettes, and things left out in the rain. But it had been a dry fall, so that stench had to be from something else.

He glanced around. Had they all been fighting? Their faces were discolored, bruised. That fellow’s nose had gone scarlet, swollen. The woman next to him appeared caked in blue, turning black around her eyes. Another woman’s lipstick smeared from both ends of her lips, as if a razor had widened her mouth. Some of their clothing was torn. He studied the women, seeking exposed flesh. It was an old habit, but he didn’t mean any harm. He simply liked women. Was that an exposed breast or an elbow? He felt vaguely ashamed, but he looked anyway. Another word he’d never used occurred to him: voyeur.

Their outfits were unusually colorful, some of the clothing beyond outlandish. They were in costume, he suddenly realized, but they’d been wearing their costumes too long, and now their costumes stank, and their makeup had deteriorated.

Halloween wasn’t until tomorrow—were people partying early? He’d never liked the holiday himself. It seemed such a sad and desperate celebration, poking at your fears for some supposed fun.

“Paula!” A female’s voice from the back of the bus. Maybe an objection. Maybe a warning. Randall couldn’t get the tone, the intent, or even the age of the speaker from just a single word. He turned around in his seat to see if he could tell who had said her name. Maybe, he thought, he might even see Paula herself. Would he even recognize her after so many years? He’d certainly had plenty of practice trying to imagine her older face, her body. Of course it was unlikely to be her, but what did they say? A small world.

His cell went off. One ring. He looked at the screen. “Not Available” was all it said.

“Paula!” He jerked his head up, looking for the speaker. No one looked at him. No one looked eager to speak. Each huddled to him- or herself, nursing their poorly disguised injuries, murmuring softly.

He’d always thought of her as the one who got away, although arguably he never had her in the first place. She’d been pleasant enough, and consented to his kisses. But never further, no matter how he’d suggested it, although he’d never been that direct. They’d gone to dinners and movies and he’d felt cowed by her quiet beauty. She was taller than him, and had that beautiful voice, especially when she laughed, or whispered into his ear. Those were early college days and he had lacked confidence. He never told her how he felt, and he had no idea how she felt about him. It was ridiculous to be thinking about her now, but someone had said her name, and he hadn’t had sex in a long time. If he could find that person he would tell them to shut up.

His cell went off again. “Not Available” flashed on the screen. He answered anyway. There was nothing but static on the line, and perhaps under that a distorted murmuring.

At his stop he pushed his way through the stinking crowd. Everything he touched left his hands feeling greasy. Climbing off he looked back to see if anyone watched him as the bus pulled away. It was hard to tell. The one face turned in his direction appeared to be sleeping.

As he walked home it occurred to him how the homeless huddled under steps and in alleys appeared to be in costume,