Bus Report #1012

Early morning, the sky several Ed Ruscha-inspired colors - black black, charcoal black, grey black, blue black, green blue. All hovering above downtown. No stars. Just planes.

Waiting for the bus the smell of fresh croissants from the bakery across the street tempts me something awful, but they're not open yet. Good for my wallet, if not my morale.

Old man across the street opens the front door to his building and hobbles out into the entry way. Black blazer over pajama top and boxer shorts. It's too cold for that. He uses his cane to dislodge his morning paper from the mail box overflow area. He stoops low to pick it up and goes back inside. To warmth, I hope. 

Elderly Russian woman with the bad knees. Good morning, hello, knees, the same routine we do every morning. Boy is she sweet, though.

Tasha pulls up in the 33, we get in, and then there are three people on the bus: me, the Russian woman, and the garlic tea drinker. With, yes, her vile flask of garlic tea. Oof. I want to tell her to put it away. I want to grab it from her and chuck it out the window. But I don't. Maybe one day.