Strangers shuffle onto the bus. The driver mentions he's tired but his exuberant friendliness betrays his claim. People let their focus fade while fiddling with their phones, flooding their ears with music, and thumbing through the pages of periodicals; anything to avoid eye-contact. Passengers reanimate to tug the suspended cords requesting their stop. It triggers a tone reminiscent of a high striker's bell. Each stop a triumph for the victorious commuter arriving at her destination.
The doors open with a monstrous hiss and close like crashing cymbals. Turn after turn, the accordion belly stretches and yawns, then folds back into an origami cove. Dusty rings on the windows are the grimy trace of evaporated raindrops. Graffiti etched by keys and sharpies tattoo the interior. Pennies, pen caps, newspapers in nooks, hairbands, band-aids, crumbs in cracks; the assortment of abandoned stowaways sift through the seats.
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