Sometimes the bus smells like exhaust. Sometimes like the sweet
shampoo of the girl who was running late and didn't have time to dry
her hair. Sometimes it is the slight odor of body mixed with the
permeating spices from homecooked Indian food. Sometimes it wreaks of
last night's alcohol. This morning it smells like fresh baked
My earbuds dangle past my sterling silver raindrops, winding and
binding and twisting to my clip-on source of entertainment. Eclipsed
by the rubber grip of my Puma shades, resting on my ears and the
bridge of my nose - so I don't squint. It is hard not to walk to the
rhythm. To the beat. To the drums. To the bass. It is hard not to
hum along and mouth the words and bust a move.
There is always writing, scraped into the back of the hard plastic
seat. Someone's tag etched, scraped, carved into existence. I know
it isn't the same bus. It isn't the same driver. It isn't the same
name. Sometimes it is blocky. Sometimes it is bubbly.
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