Bus Report #696
The 22 was late this morning.
Standing on wet pavement on Fillmore, god knows how long, my feet almost growing into the cement.
I was listening to a music podcast and the songs were infectious - like the poorly bandaged thumb of the man sitting across from me on the bus, after it finally arrived.
His hands were bloody and he ate yolk-yellow almond cookies from a pink box, smearing blood on the box, blood seeping into the cookies, crumbs clinging to his Bandaid. I couldn't stop watching.
The woman sitting in front of me smelled like mown grass and wet corn husks and overripe guava.
Standing on wet pavement on Fillmore, god knows how long, my feet almost growing into the cement.
I was listening to a music podcast and the songs were infectious - like the poorly bandaged thumb of the man sitting across from me on the bus, after it finally arrived.
His hands were bloody and he ate yolk-yellow almond cookies from a pink box, smearing blood on the box, blood seeping into the cookies, crumbs clinging to his Bandaid. I couldn't stop watching.
The woman sitting in front of me smelled like mown grass and wet corn husks and overripe guava.
posted by Rachel at 7:55 AM
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