Page 5 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

‘Not arguing with that. But just think about it, if you find a man that won’t try to kiss you? Could be a whole different

ball game. I hate to say not all men , but in this instance it really is a matter of not all men.’ She looks around to see if any customers are incoming, and as

they’re not she leans across the table. ‘Okay, to cheer you up, I have a good story. The Volvo employee I was dating? Just

up and left me.’

I feel awful now for not asking about Lina, for being consumed by my own problems. This doesn’t happen because I don’t care . It’s the opposite, really. I feel everything and anything. I sympathise too much, because the level of sympathy needed for

each person is like a well-guarded secret, known by everyone else other than me, so I don’t know how much to sympathise in

any given situation. How am I to know that I shouldn’t cry as much over my co-worker’s grandmother as I did for my own? I

mean, I feel her pain because I too have been there. Luckily, Lina doesn’t mind. She just tells me.

‘So listen to this. I’ve been left for many reasons, but never over a jar of chocolate spread.’

‘Chocolate spread? As in Nutella?’

‘Apparently me finishing it and never replacing it is selfish behaviour and showed him that I’m not a woman he would like

to share his life with.’

‘Ouch.’

‘I mean, what sort of a joke is that? Finished a jar of Nutella and he’s gone? Am I not worth more than a jar of chocolate

spread?’

‘Nutella has a recommended retail price of 34.99 kroners,’ I say, picking at the cookie and putting soft crumbling pieces into my mouth.

‘Well, thanks, bestie. Now I know my worth: 34.99 sek . Freaking amazing.’

I get up to give her a hug because hugs and wine apparently help in situations like this, and it’s too early in the day for

the latter.

‘Thanks. That was great, but it’s okay to stop now,’ she says and pulls away from the embrace. ‘He had the emotional maturity

of a hamster. Finding emotional connection is a bloody nightmare.’

I’m about to reply but pause and realise there’s something I keep seeing in movies and now see right in front of my eyes.

Something I missed when I walked in earlier. Something which worries me.

‘Are you okay?’ I point to her new hairstyle, finally putting two and two together.

‘Yes!’ she says and laughs. ‘Sometimes people cut a fringe when everything is fine.’ She laughs at me again and shakes her

head so her dark hair swooshes. ‘Jesus, I prefer Nutella to him anyway.’

‘Incoming,’ I say. Because in that moment Americano walks in. All we know about him is that he’s tall, blond with brown hazel

eyes and incredibly unapproachable. Lina hops off her chair and is behind the counter in seconds.

‘Is he on time?’ I whisper in a hiss to Lina before he’s close enough to pick it up.

‘Of course he is.’ Every day at 13.30 Americano walks in and orders, surprise, a white Americano.

‘Hi there.’ His American accent would be quite charming if he weren’t so short in his tone.

‘The usual?’ Lina asks, already preparing the coffee. I decide to leave them to it. Somehow the air gets thicker when he’s in the room, and Lina gets more preoccupied: She starts to fiddle almost like I do, touching her lips, smoothing out her apron.

‘Catch you later,’ I say. Then I add, ‘See ya,’ to Americano because I heard it in an American office show once.

My apartment is quiet when I get in that evening. I walk around turning all the lights on. The lights are off most of the

day so I do this with a clean conscience. Living area, tiny kitchen, lights above the stovetop, bedroom and shower room—can’t

leave any room out. I feel sorry for things other people don’t feel sorry for. Every time Mum forced me to throw away my old

toys or clothes I felt pain like a physical stab. ‘Oh, grow up, Sophia. They’re only things, and you have lots of them,’ Mum

would say. I’d reply that I couldn’t grow up any faster than I already was. ‘A child grows on average seven centimetres a

year, and I can’t speed it up. It’s scientifically impossible.’

I think back to what Lina said earlier about clearly stating my boundaries, that I do not kiss, for example, and that’s something

I won’t budge on. Won’t change for a man. And then I think about a book I’m reading, Unmasking Autism , it’s called, and it’s all about being your authentic self. Perhaps it’s time. Mattias, my youngest brother, gave it to me

for Christmas saying it had called to him in the bookshop.

I was five the first time Mum brought me to therapy. The therapist was named Karin, and she had glasses with greasy marks

on them, and I had to resist the urge to say anything because any urge I had in that room was meant to be resisted and controlled.

I got rewarded with my favourite toy if I held eye contact for more than a second. And I got touched on my hand when I repeated

words in a stammer.

As I got older, I read more about this therapy I was given— applied behaviour analysis .

I learned more about the intention behind it and also that it can often be anxiety-inducing and considered harsh.

It made me feel that who I was was not acceptable, and ultimately I only grew scared that I would fail in my effort to mimic others in the way I was apparently supposed to.

So all I could do was try and try and try, but I never knew if what I’d just done was a failure or a success.

People like to say that failure is what makes you stronger, but what if you can’t tell the difference?

When Mum picked me up after my sessions, Karin would say, ‘She was a good girl today,’ and Mum would look like it had been

worth the long drive there and back. But inside me something had shrivelled up and died. When you can’t be yourself in front

of your family, is there even any point to try and go out in the world and show who you are?

Now I’m starting to understand that there’s a whole tribe of Autistics who are healing their traumas and moving on. I’d very

much like to be one of them.

I open up my phone and check social media briefly.

I follow @Autistic_ProfNed on Twitter and today he tweets, ABA meets the need of neurotypicals—it makes Autism invisible so they don’t have to face it .

I like the tweet, but I don’t comment. Then I think about this no-kissing thing again.

I open up my dating profile. Will not kiss for any money in the world , I write.

Because it’s the truth. Then I think maybe I should continue this true Sophia. If I can be honest to the world

about this, perhaps I can be honest about other things?

I call Lina. I wish she lived above her shop too so she’d be right next door, but she says that if she gets no break from

smelling like flour she’ll go insane.

‘I’ve done it. It’s added. The no-kissing criteria. It’s explicitly stated now.’

‘Good. And you didn’t add that you’re not a prostitute?’

‘But I’m not.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just don’t say it.’

‘Okay. But I’m not very hopeful. The problem with people, and men in particular, is so many of them seem to just be alpha

males who want to change me. I become a challenge for them,’ I say.

‘Honey, those are the ones you ignore. Alpha males should really be called beta males. They’re the early version of a male

before testing and bug fixes. They aren’t stable and suitable for the public.’

‘So the finished product hasn’t reached the market yet?’

‘If we’re lucky, these alpha males will be gone circa fifty years from now and we can all date freely and happily ever after.’

‘Excellent.’

Later that night, when all the lights have been switched off and I’ve drawn the curtains so that I’m in the dark, I lie in

my bed with eyes closed, and the face of the man buying date flowers that morning plays in my mind. There is always a face

playing in my mind. I can’t imagine things I haven’t seen, and even though I live in a semi-rural location, I haven’t seen

enough sheep to fill a sequence long enough to last the time it takes me to fall asleep. What I remember and know is faces.

I wish it were historical facts, the times tables or even maps, but here I am, able to recall a face I once spoke to at a

bus stop.

I move over the imaginary face of today’s man in my head now. The outline of the lips with a scar, the gap in his left eyebrow,

the stain on his shirt collar, his hands holding the recently purchased flowers, until I finally drift off to sleep.

The next morning I check my dating app. Surprisingly, my honesty seems to have worked. I have three new matches, a high score for me. One who would love to have some fun, one who says he wants other things than kisses wink-wink, and one who says I’m a beautiful girl and how was my day?

I message the middle one because it seems the best match: I, too, want other things than kisses.