It hasn’t been such a bad day
4 :06, damn I missed the bus. Twenty minutes I had to spend, twenty minutes of more standing with the bag full of books I am not going to study, a sweater dangling from my arm that will stay that way, a phone awkwardly shoved in my pocket no anticipating anyone to call upon it. Twenty more minutes before I can beep on the bus — a brief transition. The symphony without a maestro in which I can be a absent-minded contributor stretches away past the windows and I carry with me on my lap a weak tune to be played solo. But throughout the ride I do not need to recite the upcoming notes or revise the mumblings. The incessant hum of the engine calms me and does my share of motion, then, I finally am entitled five stations worth of time to stare into an indefinite somewhere.
I have already walked two laps around the first floor of the plaza munching whims on every step, while I had no objection to such agenda I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, my mellow comfort was floating above the busy passengers with destination. I was sieged in a different kind of solitude from when I run south when everybody goes north, it was a hungry feeling. I felt a strong urge to nibble on something, the bakery seemed like a reasonable next destination. And there there was, few steps away. Upon entering my gaze momentarily mixed with that of a girl walking out, she quickly drank up the gaze and shot it to elsewhere, a system of meticulous ad-lib of eyes, one hand holding the phone as if she is in the middle of a conversation she looks around in careless apprehension. I thought I may have had the exact internal conflict as her one of the many days my company was no more than the sweater hanging from my hand. This bakery was a bad one, but again, I never found any bakeries pleasing to engage in. Something about their golden light, precious trays fumbled in oil and crumbs and the worn out look of the employers through me off, any bakery would have been bad, but this one was particularly bad. I had to walk between the narrow strip of room tiled in industrial floors probably the most cheapest of the selection their contractor offered among the two rows of shelves. There was cakes on one-side and a dubious anthology of well-heard of golden dung, some twisted, some rolled up, so made flat and oval shaped, all of which I can recall in my mouth there exact taste as I pass them by. Both hands occupied with the clip and the tray I have one of those moments where I am trapped in my body, never have I felt so little freedom (A line never to be used holding a dystopian novel). I exit from the other side, and walk towards the wet market, which after the renovation wasn’t so wet anymore. After a few breakdowns involving my lack of orientation, I navigate myself in front of a grey wall behind which the street food stall where me and my best friend used to get tofu from disappeared. The grey wall stands tall, and the extant of it prints on my chest as a heavy chill, I quickly deviate and walk into the interior where the market stalls contain themselves in the same forced amiability of fancy bakeries but to my rescue in loftier corridors. I don’t remember being brushed against anyone’s sweat glazed arm or having to say a heartless sorry to a person I hit with my bag whose day I have instantly ruined. I move my feet along curbs thinking to find a tofu stall but I know I won’t, yet I still move, counting on surprisingly a serendipity or just to avoid to run into a karma overdue six months. Plums in boxes, green tangerines on plates, all the fruits I would generally enjoy seemed extremely unappetising dressed in harsh lighting and pink styrofoam wrappings. They only reminds me of mother and awkward shopping expeditions I had to engage in after church, displeasing because I kept the discomfort crumbled in my face, which I found resemblance in fishes who swam in glass tanks, so shallow that ‘glass plate’ would be a better description who had bits of their body pushed above surface. At one point I felt so distinctly that another turn without serendipity would crumble my face into this time of that caged frog in a few turns I’d have to make on the way out. That’s when I saw the flank of a flower. The only hazy existence in this overly clear reality. When I stood in front of the flowers I was already acquainted with from passing glances with little appreciation I was calm, and took no more notice of the light, the sound or the straps of my bag digging in my shoulders despite being the lightest it had ever been since the beginning of this year.
That day, a bundle of yellow wildflowers slid on my lap while I stared into somewhere as somebody I did not care to recognise. Instead I distinguished the pleasant grass odour, hitting my face between motion and hums that marks them. It hadn’t been such a bad day.