It continues.

The bus ride once again is responsible for today's work, which is not a surprise to me because I've been on the bus an awful lot recently and there's little else to do but think about things to write about (and everyone's always saying "write what you know," anyway). This was actually written on the bus in my three year old notebook that is falling apart (not that I could bear to replace it before I've filled it up, of course). So I tried to capture the bits of people around me, which may or may not have worked out. I haven't decided yet.

Bus Lines

“That seat looks more comfortable.” They are both pinched by their current quarters, “on the seam,” as he calls it; so when the opportunity comes they strike quickly, seizing a recently vacated seat in a more comfortable area.

“You forgot your Pepsi,” she chides, and he reverses directions in mid-lunge to grab his bottle, returning to the new seat with a rueful grin on his face. They talk of nothing of consequence, satisfied with one another's company.

Another

He chooses to stand, feeling the rhythm of the bus's movements; standing with a bold grin at the rear door. A gatekeeper of sorts, though not intentionally, the poles on either side of the short staircase leading down to the street make it easy to keep balance while the bus strains to climb yet another hill. Seats empty but he remains standing (he gets enough of sitting at work, stuck in a warehouse near the center of the city, taking shoes out of one box and putting them in another, tedious work but no dress code and the pay's enough to live on) until he dismounts the ride and heads home.

Another

He hides near the back, his hood drawn over his face, concealing him for fear someone will try to start a conversation, a real face-to-face one, and he cannot speak while looking into the eyes, he gets nervous being that intimate. He holds a phone to his ear, speaking to someone who understands his problem and will never ask to meet him face to face; family can be understanding sometimes.

A lurch as the bus nearly misses a stop

Father and son sit side by side, saying nothing. The father has never been good at conversation, least of all with his son whom he fears will feel neglected and this will cause him to fail at fatherhood. He wishes his son did not have to ride a bus, and dreams of a future where he can watch with pride as his son graduates from college with honors, buys a car, a nice house in the suburbs. His son wonders what's on television tonight and dreams of being a basketball star.

A phone rings

“Girl, you know me! I'm nearly there!” Anxiety tinges her voice, there's so much between them now, old exes and her own awkward feelings of wanting something stronger than friendship (hopefully this her friend does not realize). “Don't you go drinking it all, I'm almost there!”

She's lost her job but tonight it doesn't matter, she's not going to think of it; alcohol will provide one more “fuck you” to responsibility because sometimes life kicks your ass and its all you can do to keep going, so smile and laugh and maybe tonight things will be different and she'll be honest about how she feels, even if it takes alcohol for her to feel brave enough this time.

A pothole shakes the bus

He's been through hell today, nearly killed by a falling piece of scaffolding, constantly sore, a headache that won't go away, the early mornings alone grinding him down. But when he left the job site today, staggering in his weariness, she was there to greet him, smilingly giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek that said so much more than a peck on the cheek and he felt ten feet tall. On the bus sleep overcomes him and she wraps him in a loose embrace, gives him a place to rest, lets him know she'll never leave him (though he already knows that, but the reminder is nice) and when their stop nears she gently wakes him and they head home to make dinner together.