The "Love Muscle" (short story)

A short story about an interior unfurling + new play & theatre works ...and more!

Reena Kapoor

Nov 01, 2024

FIRST, here’s wishing you and yours a VERY HAPPY DIWALI ! Hope this Diwali brings you light, love and the power to redeem the demons within. And yes, they’re all within.

NEW theatre works!! THREE SHORT PLAYS! ONLINE. Two showcase chances to watch.

Please RSVP for one of the dates and come watch. Run time ~about an hour.

FINALLY…

This short story was published in the “Best of the Best” 2024 Literary Review anthology of the California Writers Club in July 2024. Hope you enjoy it.

The Love Muscle

I stood hesitating outside the J. Thoman Auto Shop after dropping off my car. The sign above me declared, “We Make Car Troubles Disappear Like Magic!" Someone had almost completely erased “Troubles”. Thoman, the owner, didn’t bother to have the sign fixed. Because longtime customers—immigrants like my parents—didn’t bother with such trifles. Thoman’s low prices, undoubtedly afforded by tradeoffs of this nature, preserved their loyalty. Some of that loyalty, either out of force of habit or a simple desire to avoid yet another battle, trickled down to offspring like me.

Thoman was a Syrian Christian from Kerala who insisted on, “Mr. J. Thoman! Please, thank you much!” if anyone dared to simply address him as “Thoman.” I was directed to him by my dad when I bought my first car after college. I hadn’t brought my car in, since my mother—the last of my parents—suddenly passed on two years ago.

As usual, I got no greeting, no smile, no semblance of warmth, just, “Why bringing so late? The car will DHIE!” Thankfully, this was my last visit to his shop. Time to shed even these fragments of my inheritance.

I’d grown up a couple of streets over. I didn’t go that way anymore. Only ghosts roamed those streets, battle-ready as ever. After I entered high school, “Why studying Political Science? Why not just plain Science?” was the most my father ever uttered directly to me.

“Be fully concentrating on studies only,” came from my mother with my father standing behind her glaring at the floor. Foolishly, I argued with her.

It culminated in my mother showing up at my high school one afternoon. “I want to see this boy you’re talking to so much in the night!”

The school principal had to intervene. It was the day all joy and friendship I found in high school, evaporated. College and law school were a respite. When I moved back to the area with a job at a top law firm, my parents were bewildered that I didn’t want to live with them and save on rent. My mother’s hectoring got more earnest after my father’s passing. “When will you settle down? So old already!” “Settle down” being a euphemism for marriage and reproduction.

“Have a love marriage, if you want!” was the final concession she granted me two months before she passed. Repetitive injury from battle prevented me from noticing what a significant compromise she was offering, in giving me permission to forgo an arranged marriage. Victory at age thirty-six! Despite my law school training, winning against her didn't feel like much. Not then, not now, even when all adversaries had been reduced to ashes and ghosts.

I looked across the street. My old bus stop for municipal #51. The bus I used to take to my high school every day. I could take it to get to the house I live in now. Jumping in an Uber would be a lot faster though. But I had time today. I was in between jobs. I found myself crossing the street. Rare for me to indulge the past like this. The graveyard of memories and lost dreams is a dangerous place to visit. Sometimes ghosts insist on crossing over into real life. Still, here I was waiting for that old bus.

And I can’t complain. My choices have brought me exactly where I want to be. A noted lawyer, still young-ish (is thirty-nine even middle age?), invited to Georgetown to work closely with my role model in constitutional law. It does mean moving across the country. I’m ready. When I received the offer, I was over the moon. Then, within days a hollowness wormed in. Seriously? Ingrate!

I worried about showing up for the new position with anything less than a 1000% to offer. Hence the therapist. At first, I did most of the talking. The therapist didn’t offer much. Instead, he seemed to stray into orthogonal spaces. A month ago, he suggested I may be avoiding “human connection; fear of commitment?” Never heard THAT cliche before! For a second, I was tempted to walk out right then. But finding a decent therapist isn’t easy these days.

“I’m no recluse,” I countered. “Hardly ever without a boyfriend.” Thank you very much!

The therapist nodded, offering nothing more for my conundrum. Then recently after another session he surprised me with something even more random. “Let’s work on helping you rediscover your ‘love muscle.’”

I laughed out loud. “Love muscle? That almost sounds pornographic!”

Given his eastern European accent (or Israeli perhaps?) I wondered if his terminology was victim to literal translation-ism from another language, a condition I was only too familiar with, having been raised in Hindi and English with mixed metaphors, and a whole lot of translation-ism-afflicted phraseology. He smiled at my comment and carried on.

So here I was, a week later, standing at my old bus stop still chuckling at the notion of reviving my love muscle. The bus arrived, slowed to a stop. I ascended the steps and paused. It felt like I entered a portal into a parallel world that operated at a fraction of the speed of my life.

The driver was grinning at me. A raffish-looking young fellow, he adjusted the bright red scarf around his neck as he greeted me. “Welcome lady! Take any open seat you like.”

I felt a tiny resentment. Nothing about this young driver—other than his station—was anything like…Jerome? Yes, Jerome! Jerome, the bus driver who drove this route, and who I saw twice daily, through my four years of high school. I wondered where Jerome was now. Probably long retired. I found myself a window seat.

Jerome was much older than this driver. Always punctual, polite, and attentive to his job. He didn’t chat much with us passengers. At first, I didn’t know his name and I didn’t think he even noticed me. Until that one day at the end of junior year. That day my boyfriend hadn’t accompanied me to the bus stop, like he’d done every single day for the past two years. That day I waited alone at the bus stop. That day I boarded the bus weighed under more emotion than I knew what to do with. It was an interminable twenty-minute ride before I could get home and lock myself in my room. And avoid my mother and the victory in her eyes.

That day, just as my stop neared, I noticed one of my earrings was missing. It was the only present my boyfriend ever gave me in the time we dated. The two years he ended without notice that morning. A week after my mother’s infamous school visit. I couldn’t lose the earring. I frantically patted down my clothes. Soon I was on my knees, scanning the bus floor through my tears. Doing this meant I’d probably miss my stop.

Almost immediately Jerome was standing over me. “What you lookin’ for, Miss?”

I looked up and saw the bus wasn’t moving. Jerome was much shorter than he seemed sitting. He didn’t sound impatient, just matter of fact. I read his name on his shirt.

“My earring…,” I sobbed back, holding out the one I still had. Without saying a word Jerome got on his knees to help me look. I don’t know why the rest of the passengers didn’t protest the delay. Instead some of them even started to look around their feet.

We never found the earring. Jerome waited for me to get myself together before I got off the bus. As I stepped off, he said, “Better one in your future, miss.” I looked back at him. I knew he didn’t mean the earring. Those words became my sole solace in that time. Jerome never mentioned the incident again. And after that day he always nodded at me when I entered or exited the bus with a “Good morning, miss” or a “Good afternoon, miss.” I greeted him back.

At school I threw myself into classes, college apps, more AP than any college needed and extra-credit-everything. My ex-boyfriend moved on too. I heard he was dating someone with “much less drama”. In those years, Jerome’s greetings punctuated the only time and space where I could exhale.

Then high school ended. I left for college and never saw Jerome again.

And here I was seated in Jerome’s bus after more than two decades. Yes, this would always be Jerome’s bus. A gentle breeze kissed my cheek. I sighed, surrendering to the twenty-five-minute suspension of life. Scenes from years gone by whizzed past the window. School, college, law school, work, losing my father, work, losing my mother, work, work, work…

Jerome’s bus snaked through familiar streets. We went past a flaming field of California poppies. When I bought my first house, I used to have fresh flowers on the table every week. “Wasting money on real flowers?” my mother wanted to know. That practice faded too. Once I move to DC, I’ll have fresh flowers every day!

As the bus ride continued, a calm settled on me. I found myself humming. It was an old favorite, a love tune from my high school days. Soon another voice joined my humming—with words. I turned around to see a woman, probably in her 70s, singing and swaying with the tune. She was smiling, the kind of smile I don’t see too much. When we lawyers smile, our smiles often don’t make it to our eyes. We women lawyers even more so, trying to outdo the men on every front. Geez! Where are all these thoughts coming from?

The woman and I carried on humming and singing. The rest of the bus acted as if this was the most natural thing in the world. A couple nodded at me. Others got on and off without comment. We repeated stanzas, not wanting the ride to end. When the bus halted at my stop, I rose reluctantly and gave my singing partner a little bow. She waved at me, laughing. Whoa! Since when have I started singing on public transport?

I started to exit the bus. I heard someone speak behind me.

“Hey lady!” I stepped off and turned around. The young driver was looking at me, his grin and confidence gone.

I wondered if I’d left something behind.

He hesitated as if confessing to an infraction. “Your song, it’s one of Jennie’s favorites…”

I gave him a half smile, not exactly sure who or what he was getting at.

Then he ran his hand through his hair, and gushed, “That song back there…that got me. I'm gonna tell Jennie how I feel ‘bout her. Think I’ll do it… today!”

He nodded vigorously and settled back down. A few on the bus cheered and clapped as he waved and drove away.

I found myself standing alone at the bus stop. High school was the last time I’d been in love. In this town, which I was about to leave—for good. I found myself sobbing. Can a love muscle get sore from disuse?

I called my therapist.

###

-reena | 2023