I first knew she was sick when I heard a sharp spurting noise behind me and saw clear liquid running past my feet. We were on the bus. The woman's face was red and convulsive. Her lips were glossy with saliva and maybe bile.
A passanger opposite the woman crossed her arms and, for the benefit of everyone, snapped "unbelievable!". Another passenger, a young woman, walked the length of the bus calling for a plastic bag. When one was eventually found and handed over, an atmosphere of concern (or for some I'm sure: pity) surrounded the distressed woman. I mentioned that the Prince of Wales hospital was only a few stops on. Then I spoke to the driver to make him aware of what he had probably already seen in his mirror. He was totally impassive; it felt like I was talking to a wall. Not wanting to judge but judging, I got off.
As I walked, the bus pulling away, I thought: for all the attention and fuss, that woman seemed in another place all together. She took the bag but not an offer of water. Her eyes rolled so as to avoid meeting anyone else's. Of course, it's possible she was a junkie, but who really knows, and besides should that change anything?
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