You know how some kids have invisible friends, that only they can see (because the gap between childhood and insanity isn't very wide)? Well, I have one, too. Mine, however, is the exact opposite of most invisible friends. I can't see him, but apparently everyone else can.
Every morning, when I go to my classes, he rides the bus with me to town, and sits in the seat next to me. I always take the window seat, because I like watching bushes and trees and stuff fly by. There I sit, with my handbag in my lap, staring out the window, listening to my music on my mp3-player and minding my own, fascinating business. Slowly, the bus starts to fill up. And as it does, there are fewer and fewer available seats (duuuh!). Sooner or later, someone decides that they would like to sit in the seat next to me. Do they sit down? No. Do they stand in the isle and stare at me, until I notice them, so that I can give them permission to sit down? Yes. Why? Because they're terrified of sitting on my invisible friend. That's the conclusion I've arrived at.
I lived in the city for a while. My invisible friend decided not to come with me. Obviously, he's not the urban type. As a result, nobody was afraid to sit on him, and nobody waited for my permission to sit next to me on the bus. But now that I'm back here, he's found me again.
I wonder if he'll come with me the next time I move.