I was sitting alone, a choice I typically made on my nightly commutes home. I lifted my bag and placed it on my lap. I noticed I set it down in something sticky, something thick and dark, like jelly. I would consider myself something of an introvert, especially after long, tiresome days at the shop. I reach a certain quota of fabricated conversations at work each day, so yes, squeezing in one or two more disingenuous smiles pains me, sometimes. But, alas, a bubbly girl, no older than me, was going to ensure my night would end uncomfortably. She sat to my left, after the bus made its usual stop on Cherry Tree, and I instinctively shifted a little to the right—you know, the kind of smug body language that acts (hopefully) as a signal of my disinterest. This did nothing to thwart her.

“And how are we doing tonight?” She smiled, with her dimples demanding as much attention as her bright, turquoise eyes. Her straight hair fell perfectly on her pretty face, and her lips were pink and glossy. But also, she had some peanut butter on her cheek. I didn’t mention it.

“We’re okay,” I said.

“Just okay?” She said, again, with a determined and real smile.

“Well, yeah. Long day I guess.”

She turned back in her seat, seemingly intent on finding a way to cheer me up, she pulled a brown bag out of her purse and set it on her lap.

“Want half? It’s peanut butter and jelly,” she asked, handing over half of her sandwich.

“Oh, no. Thank you, though.”

“Well you said you had a long day. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes, I am, a bit. But not for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I’m sorry. Thank you, though, really.”

She turned back in her seat, again, this time without her smile. Was what I said rude? Who cares, anyways? It’s weird to just get on a bus and offer a stranger a sandwich, right? Maybe I should say something.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said, now turning toward her. “I’m just tired, so excuse me, please.”

“Oh,” she giggled. “No need for apologies! Just figured I’d ask. Can’t hurt, right?”

“Right,” I said, with a likely dorky smile.

She finished her sandwich, then took out another. She slowly turned to look at me as she was unwrapping it, anticipating my judgment.

“You really like those, don’t you?” I said, laughing.

“I really do,” she said, with a face too passionate for the subject matter. “They were my grandma’s favorite, and they’re mine, too.”

“I see,” I nodded.

“Do you want half of… This one?” she said jokingly, once again extending another half to me.

“You know… that one is tempting… but I really am okay. Thank you.”

“It’s okay,” she said, smiling again. “I think this is my stop. It was nice meeting you. What’s your name?”

“My name is Michael,” I said, “what’s yours?”

“My name is Phoebe, but people usually just call me P.B.,” she winked.

She stood up and walked down the aisle of the quiet bus. I watched her, wishing I could have spoken to her for just a minute longer. I almost stopped her—for her number, or to ask her out, but I just didn’t.

Immediately after exiting the bus and crossing the street, an oncoming bus hit Phoebe. I rushed out of my seat and ran to her. She was on the ground, bloody and seemingly flatter. I'm no doctor, but she was definitely dead.

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, simultaneously digging through her purse for I.D. Her bag was filled entirely with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Her I.D. was stuck to the bottom—it indeed read: “Phoebe Jackson,” born February 18, 1993. She was even an organ donor.

TWO WEEKS LATER

I received a strange phone call. Well, I suppose not that strange. Phoebe’s mom invited me to the funeral. She found out that I was the one who called in the ambulance. It felt impolite to decline the invitation, even given the strange circumstances. She was a sweet girl, after all.

I prepared a perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich before I left. I figured it may come in handy. I tucked it in my coat pocket and headed to the cemetery.

I felt out of place, as I expected. Phoebe’s parents expressed their deep gratitude to me at the end of the service, but before they turned away, I felt urged to ask them something.

“I really don’t mean to be disrespectful, but, what was the deal with the sandwiches?”

I instantly regretted asking that question.

Her dad showed a very brief smile, “It was just her thing,” he reminisced.

They turned away, weeping softly. They took a final look at her grave while I stayed behind, waiting to say my final goodbye to the mysterious peanut butter and jelly girl. I approached the grave, reading: Phoebe Jackson (which immediately made me think P.B. and J) lover of family, dogs, and of course, P.B. & Js.

I pulled out the sandwich I prepared. A tear slid down my face as I tore the sandwich in half placing one half beside her grave.

“Here P.B., I wanted to share this with you today,” I said sniffling, to nothing but the silence of the graveyard.

I finished my half and let out a few uncontrolled burps.

Was that in bad taste?

“Goodbye Phoebe. Thank you for enjoying the smaller things in life. I should do that more.”

I touched her gravestone one last time.

It was the next morning. I had to work soon. I got out of bed, showered, dressed myself, and went to the kitchen to prepare my lunch.

I whipped up a classic bologna sandwich.