Free The Space Between Us by Thrity Umrigar

Now several of the passengers got into the fun, throwing out requests his way. Bhima gritted her teeth. This Gopal was just too much. Her fingers itched for thebroom that she used at Dinubai’s house. She would smack that stupid grin off his face if she had that jharoo with her.
    Her irritation and embarrassment almost caused her to miss her stop. “Wait, wait,” she yelled to the conductor. “This is my stop.”
    As she got off, she waited for the bus to leave so that she could confront Gopal and tell him these shenanigans had to stop. To her chagrin, she saw him pedaling away, alongside the bus. As if he knew she was watching, he raised his right hand in a wave. The coward, she thought. Knew I’d give him some vim-zim, so he takes off.
    The next day, he was back. But this time he waited on his bicycle across the street from the bus stop, too far for her to give him a piece of her mind. She did her best to keep her eyes from straying toward him, but each time she did catch his eye, he clenched his heart dramatically. Idiot, she thought. I wish the next time he holds his chest he has a heart attack and falls off his cycle. The next minute, she stiffened with remorse at the wickedness of her thoughts.
    She was thankful when the bus arrived. She took her usual seat, and five seconds later there was the familiar hand gripping the metal bar. This time, she did not jump out of her seat in shock but felt a mild tremor of surprise and irritation at his audacity. She had truly believed he would leave her alone today. The queen of my dreams, when will you arrive? The familiar tune started up again. And again, the skillful weaving and bobbing in and out of traffic. The other passengers, many of whom caught the same bus daily, tittered. “Arre, bhenji,” her would-be rescuer from yesterday called from across the aisle. “Why don’t you say yes to your man and put him out of his misery? Taking his life in his own hands, he is, for your sake.” Bhima fixed a baleful stare at him, and the man went back to reading his newspaper, muttering to himself about the wily ways of the fairer sex.
    For the next three weeks, Gopal followed the same routine.Some days he would wait for her on the other side of the street and pedal furiously across four lanes of traffic to catch up with her bus when it arrived. Other times, he would greet her with the tringtring of his bicycle bell and circle around the bus stop until she felt dizzy. The only difference between the first day of this strange courtship and the days that followed was that he no longer spoke to her. But the impudent grin, the daredevil tricks on the bike while they waited for the bus to arrive, and the joyful serenading remained unchanged. As did the fact that he rode off alongside the bus after it had deposited Bhima a few streets from her mistress’s house. Bhima longed to talk to him, to ask for some explanation for his mad behavior, but the presence of the other passengers silenced her.
    One day during those three weeks, Bhima arrived at the bus stop and noticed immediately that Gopal was not there. Her mind told her to breathe a sigh of relief even as her body experienced a disappointed lurch and feeling of letdown. Apparently, her fellow travelers had experienced the same thing. “The young fellow’s missing today,” an elderly gentleman in a white kurta and dhoti said. “Wonder if he’s all right.”
    A lethargic feeling came over Bhima as she entered the bus. The seven stops to Dinubai’s house will take forever without the distraction provided by Gopal, she thought, surprising herself. She looked at the empty, lonely metal bar with something approaching wistfulness, missing the brown hand with coarse dark hair that usually gripped that bar. As the bus lurched forward, she glanced backward—only to see Gopal pedaling furiously to catch up. The next minute the hand was resting triumphantly on the bar. “Hello, my queen,” the familiar voice said. “Almost missed