I saw a man reading Proust on the bus. It was the 3rd volume. He was near the end where Baron de Chalrus becomes at once more mercurial and persistent. The man was probably in his sixties. He wore clothes that, although fresh, seemed surfaced with age. As if the lack of ostentation alone faded them as much as the sun. Or perhaps their sheer normality dulled them as soon as you put them on. He had a camera with a small lens, probably a 50mm but no lens cap. Olympus. Was he recording? Was he taking pictures of me on the bus writing these observations on sticky notes? The remaining articles were a black North Face backpack and his lightly scuffed but obviously well-worn shoes. Completely ordinary except for the Proust and the large mesh strainer at his feet. What was the strainer for? Probably a large amount of pasta. And who was he reading Proust for? I couldn’t help imagining a romantic dinner tonight with his long-time husband. “Honey, the Baron de Charlus is becoming more persistent in his affections for young Marcel!” No wedding ring, though. I couldn’t bear the thought that he would only cook for one - of his loneliness with only the characters of Proust, who really are not that delightful. My only hope for him was the strainer. Such a large strainer is simply impractical in cooking one serving of anything.

 I sensed he was preparing to get off the bus. He delicately placed the bookmark at an appropriate pause. He took out a ziplock bag with a pink rim and placed the book inside. Careful to avoid creasing the cover, he wedged The Guermantes Way into an allocated nook of the back pack. He looked around the bus with a gaze that only comes from reading long passages in long books, a myopic gaze that looks at an interior horizon. The bus stopped at Seneca street. He waited for the most eager passengers to clear the door before exiting without the strainer. 

The man most likely never took notice of the strainer. But in leaving it behind, it became a strainer for anyone. For all of us. A Plutonic form for cooking multiple servings of pasta. As if expressing, while we may cook for one, we can always share the essence of a meal with others. You don’t read Proust if you expect to stay alone forever. And you don’t read Proust on the bus unless you’re hoping someone will see it. Someone might see it, and witness you for those moments. And though the connection is ephemeral, the connection is transcendent. A transcendence that will seldom be remembered, but never be erased, as if you’ll cook dinner for yourself but when you sit to eat it will be at the table together. At opposite ends of the Guermantes salon.