I climbed onto the transit bus and hesitantly chose a sideways spot on the right of the back. What I thought to be the most isolated. I didn't want the smell of crystallized deodorant coming from the public to seep into my sweater. I crossed my legs into a pretzel and looked over the people sharing the ride.. Unpredictable herds of common human-types, travelling in packs. An array of old women flock to the front seats. They always do. A pudgy one sports a decidedly red crew cut and a pair of round silver glasses. Two worlds balanced on the bridge of her wrinkled nose. She’s probably on her way home from the cubicle she works in. Counts minutes in. Seconds. The woman beside her could be her sister, though I'm sure they aren't even aware of each others existence. Their shoulders touch with ease yet they know nothing about each other. Shockingly similar Holden Caulfield crew cut, same fire engine hair follicles pressed under the underbellies of her John Lennon glasses. She brushes it out of the way, to the side, rearranging it to frame her face better, probably. She sweeps her hair to the side like that because she's learnt it in a magazine. That's sad to me. A bull’s eye in the target audience. I wonder if she's trying to look desirable. I wonder if she’s married. A thick book is devoured by her eyes, pacing left to right, left to right. I lurk at the cover, trying to activate my super human eyesight. I’m too far to make out the title, but I feel pretty confident when I say it was a murder mystery. They eat that up. My mom swallows them whole, in shifts it seems. A new shipment every few weeks from her lady friend is something I can practically count my life on. Older women love those plots. They love when it's laced with romance, too. A combination of the thrills they've been deprived of for so long or perhaps never experienced. I can hear her gum smacking against teeth, making her jaw pulse with the isolated movement of a standard truck.
The people keep coming in shifts, piles, like the murder mystery books, the lines at the theatre, the sadness that arrives from time to time. Every corner of the bus has been clothed with either skin or jean fabric, smothered with years of small talk and cigarette smoke; stripped of whatever solitude it had to begin with. A small earthquake emerges under my seat and we start to move slowly, jolting 3 teenagers forward for a split second. I study them next. I study silently, observing. Acne accompanies their pubescent voices, heaps of young white skin oozing out of too short shorts. I'm blinded by the braces on one of them, gleaming in the sunlight like tinfoil. A fat woman with a ponytail glares at me. Mind your own business.