Foreword

(from Pathways to Submission: 1. Sally’s Surrender)

As usual for a rainy day, my bus to work is running late, and it is packed by the time it reaches my stop. I work my way to the back of the bus where I can at least stand in relative peace. More passengers board and soon we are playing sardines. I’m in danger of being pushed onto the lap of the man sat in the centre rear seat. Not that he is paying me any attention. Like those sat around him, he is preoccupied with his smart phone.

The bus continues its journey, periodically causing standing passengers to sway and grab hold of the hanging straps. Unfortunately I’ve no strap within reach and the handholds on the seats are equally inaccessible to me. I do my best to stay upright without grabbing someone by accident.

A woman in her mid-twenties is standing in front of me. The unspoken rule is for standing passengers to face the front of the bus. Doing so preserves the illusion of personal space where none exists. But this woman is facing the other way, and her penetrating eyes are making me feel awkward.

“I like the way you’ve done your hair, Sally,” says the woman.

“Um ... Thanks. How do you know my name? I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“We haven’t met, but your name badge reveals your name, and your uniform that you work at Trammers,” she laughs.

Duh! My clear plastic raincoat reveals my distinctive work clothes underneath, along with my name badge. The store where I work insists employees wear their uniform when travelling to and from work. It’s a major inconvenience on wet days as my usual coat isn’t long enough to protect my skirt from the elements.

“I thought Trammers had closed down,” says the woman.

“Not yet. The store is closing at the end of next week,” I reply, recalling that I must make a serious effort to find a new job.

The bus stops suddenly and I lurch into the woman. She grabs hold of my left arm to steady me while holding onto one of the hanging straps with her other hand. I feel really embarrassed but the woman doesn’t seem to mind.

“Here, share this strap with me,” she says.

It means I need to move closer and we are practically touching by the time I can reach the strap. I don’t fail to notice that she hasn’t let go of my left arm. I feel awkward, but the woman has been kind and I don’t want to make a fuss. Consequently I allow her to keep her hand where it is since she obviously has no intention of removing it from my arm.

My discomfort grows when I realise that with my right arm raised, the top button of my blouse has come open and the woman has a perfect view of my cleavage. I’ve a decent pair of boobs, but I don’t generally flash them about, even for my occasional boyfriend. I need to re-button the top of my blouse, but that’s impossible in the current situation. I want to move my left hand to cover my exposed area, but the woman’s hand on my arm prevents me.