Waiting on the Bus
Short Prose
The sky is dense and dark as charcoal. Ready to pour. And the bus is 20 minutes late.
We wait with our earbuds in. Shoulders hunched. Scattered around the bus stop. Scrolling. Listening. Reading. Breathing. Watching the clouds and hoping they keep their moisture, at least for the time being.
Meanwhile, the buses meander through the city, tracing their routes over and over again as an artist retraces a line to enhance it. Stopping, starting. Slow and rocking.
There! I stand up, shouldering my bag. The great beast lets out a long sigh as it comes to halt before us. The doors squeak open.
We converge to board and set off to be scattered one by one along its journey, left by the roadside to pursue our day’s goals.
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