Bus Report #777
He wore the kind of wide torso-wrapping belt that heavy-lifters wear, layered over a long-sleeve black t-shirt with streaks of white stuff across it, white pants that looked suspiciously like long johns, and two bracelets on his wrist told me he had recently been in the hospital: a white hospital band and a bright yellow one that read: FALL RISK.
He took a purple hand mirror from his backpack, and then wiped his face and head several times with a beige and brown washcloth. His hair was dirty - so greasy it didn't move when he touched it, unless he really tugged it and then it shot out from his head in funny directions and stayed that way.
He took a green mascara wand from his bag and started putting it on. He did his eyes, and then did them again, and then did them a third time. Then he began combing his hair with the mascara wand, so that his bangs grew darker and darker with each swipe.
He pouted into the mirror. His hands were grimy, his nails yellowed and dirty, and his face was sunburned and lined with deep wrinkles but he wasn't far from pretty.
He twirled the wand through the hair at his temples, and it poked out to the side. He did his eyes again.
He exchanged the mascara for a pencil, though whether it was a real pencil or a makeup pencil I couldn't tell.
He used it to do his eyes again.
And then again.
He was still at it when I got off the bus.