From my perch next to the window, I look down on the bus driver — a small, tidy white man with a bald spot and a collared shirt.
Cradling a complicated novel on my lap, I tell myself that his small head surely houses small thoughts.
The bus driver’s eyes roam the rearview mirror.
He sees me and my open book.
Before dimming the interior of the bus, he suggests to me, in a soft voice accented with kindness and consideration, You may want to use the reading lights.
Suddenly, it’s easy to see I am the one who is small-minded.