Bus Report #812

Tonight, on a smelly and crowded 38 Geary.
An impossibly tall man sat beside me, all elbows and knees, folded into the seat, almost birdlike.

Behind us, a man with an enormous trash bag full of glass bottles. How do I know they were glass? He smashed them on the way into the bus, smashed them even more on the way out of the bus. Loudly. So that I thought he'd end up with a sack of pulverized glass by the time he reached his destination.

In front of me, a woman in a tank top had a tattoo in cursive across her shoulders, "La vida es una belleza", which didn't make a lot of sense to me, and the 'z' in belleza was weird looking, as though someone had misspelled the tattoo and then gone over it again trying to correct it.
Maybe she felt me looking at it because she soon wrapped a gauzy pink scarf around her neck and tugged it down so all that was readable was the 'la vida' part.

I hurried off the bus at my stop, into the strangely warm evening, and headed home.