Bus 32

The bus driver’s gaze is fixated on the road, daydreaming about how nice it will be to see his beloved German Shepherd again after his shift.

A little boy is standing amongst adults with his backpack almost bigger than him, worrying about their judgement, but they never seem to pay him any attention.

There sits a girl with vibrant make up and carefully shaped eyebrows, arguing with her girlfriend through texts about whether they should go out tonight or not.

Over there an elderly woman shoots thunders out of her eyes towards a teenage boy because he refuses to give up his seat, but she fails to see that the boy’s right leg is broken.

Two middle-aged men flash suspicious stares at a muslim girl standing next to them, who is wearing a hijab and is on her way to her literature class.

A young man in a neat white shirt, hands clasped around the handles of his brown briefcase, is going to work anxiously, because his boss has been sexually harrassing him from day one.

We pass a swimming pool: a grey haired coach with a beer belly writes something in his notebook with a strict look in his eyes, occasionally glancing at the swimmers in the clean water.

Across from me, an elegantly dressed woman is spacing out with bloodshot eyes after a weekend of cocaine binges, with a look filled with the kind of sorrow that eats you up inside.

Lastly, here I sit, filling the cave of my chest with the crinkled paper balls of not mattering, the rising sun’s golden rays dancing around my eyes.