The beads on the bus

There's a woman who sits across from me on the bus, fidgeting and talking to herself. But it's not what you think, if you're thinking of unpleasant public transit stereotypes. She's not covered in mysterious stains or exuding mysterious smells. She's a perfectly nice, quiet woman of indeterminate middle age, on her way to work. And she prays the rosary, sometimes the whole way.
I mean, the drivers make me nervous too at times. They can get a little lead-footed. But this woman is either seriously worried about physical harm or her soul or both because the second the wheels begin to turn, her wheels begin to turn as well. The prayers and bead-caressing begin. I also feel like she's looking at my with a particular intensity, somehow sizing me up, or perhaps challenging me to challenge her, since I clearly notice her behavior.
The other day, I ran into her at Costco. I'm surprised I noticed, considering that my first-born son was having a total nut-out over the fact that he didn't get to hand our receipt to the person checking carts at the exit. She gave me that same look, plus a slight, smilish rise of the lip. Maybe someday I'll actually talk to her instead of merely filling in the blanks.