Tuesday, July 17, 2012

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.


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