Rain

Rain

The dull roar of the engine jerks the bus back into motion and my gaze flickers away from him. I am usually alone here this late, and his presence has startled me. Picking my way to a double seat I set down my heavy bag before collapsing into blue flecked comfort. This far up the bus I know I am safe from the filthy look I’m sure he shot at me as I climbed the drab yellow steps. I try to put him out of my mind as I marvel yet again at how much dust the inch of felt on the thin cushion can conceal as puff of the fine material greets my exhausted sitting down. I’m sure most of it has been here for years, coming to the surface only when struck or beaten by schoolchildren as they impatiently wait arrive at their stop. But now the bus is empty.
Except for the man. I’m tempted to glance back at him to cement my distorted mental picture, but that might look suspicious. Instead I tentatively try to snatch his reflection from the front window. It has begun to rain. There are no wipers on the higher level, so rain simply cascades over the glass and into the dark abyss of the cold November night. The ferocious proximity of the rain would bother me if I had not been taking these buses for so long. So often had I seen its desperate thrashings against the glass I know the pitiful droplets cannot touch me. I think deeper on the rain and become lost in my aimless musings.
A Face. Its reflection in pale in the meagre flickering strips of light from the ceiling, but I can tell that he’s looking at me. The rain blurs his grim visage as the bus jerks on again. I saw exactly where he is sitting. The back of the bus had been a haven for the inconspicuous, secretive and malign since time immemorial. I glimpse him again, languishing in the bad children’s traditional seat of power. I imagine him sneering at me from behind a strewn blockade of empty cider cans drowned in piss and rainwater. Using this tin flotilla, he wards away any attempt to go near him like the Spanish armada. Not that I’d want to. I shift my position in the seat and pointedly stare out the window again. My head twitches as I itch to catch a real glimpse of him, and I feel the need the need to solidify the reason why he looked at me with such unjustified contempt. I scratch the back of my head and continue my solitary watch of the outside world.
I hear coughing from behind me. A sharp clench in my chest hones my ears in on the abrasive grating of his phlegm soaked hacking, hacking away for minutes at a time before subsiding, only to begin again with renewed vigour. The sound is bothering me, and it makes him seem closer to me than he is. I turn my head away again. Concerned eyes and a deeply furrowed brow stare at me from behind the glass of the right-side window. My skin always looks so terrible in the bleak neon of the bus. I observe the down turn of my face and tilt my head to find a more attractive angle.
A sudden blast of moisture hits me on the crown of my head, startling me to release a breath I did not know that I was holding inside me. The warm condensation from my outburst clings to barren glass and erases the reflection there. I blink as another raindrop drips onto me.
Suddenly irritated, I shift myself out of the way of the now rhythmic flow. I hate these buses. I hate their leaks, their screaming prams, their drug addicts and everyday lunatics. I hate the abrasive electronic bleating of pop music that punctuates every pothole along the route, and the love birds who roost in their fucking nest in the top left corner every day without fail. I grunt as I try to shift my heavy bag away from the persistent dripping.
Suddenly I hear a shift behind me. I pause in my struggle as my back straightens to hear the rustling behind me. He’s definitely closer than before, I can hear him, I know I can. I don’t want to look at him, but I can feel him coming up the aisle at me. I clench my jaw and my breathing deepens. Why can’t he leave me alone? Twenty minutes of solitude is all I ask for. His heavy footsteps match tempo with the spattering of the rain on the glass, a slow bass line to the raindrops’ relentless staccato. My knuckles whiten as I grip the bar of the seat in front of me. He’s getting closer. I can’t turn around.

My stomach knots itself hard as the thuds continue,
warm dread fills me like broiling liquid and
I know he’s coming and he’s right behind me oh
God, fuck let him just turn around, please
I’ll be so good just please,
Fucking make him stop
Make him stop walking at me!

The old man passes me by and begins his doddery descent down the yellow stairs. As he gives me a glance as he fumbles his way to the lower levels, I notice nothing in his deep blue eyes. He passes from view, and I ease my clenching hands slightly. I am alone again.
Heaving my bag back onto my shaking shoulders I make for the stairs. As I attempt to turn the corner a high pitched whimper strikes my ear. Whirling on the top step I see a small child wide eyed with her skinny knees tucked under her chin. Her back pressed against the window. So tiny is this girl I do not question why I didn’t notice her before. After a moment I realise that she is recoiling away from me, her staring blue eyes and chin shaking incessantly.
‘it’s so cold up here, why is it so cold?’ she shivers
I open my mouth to console the child, but she shrieks as I attempt to reach out to her and runs to the back of the bus sobbing.
‘Stop looking at me, please, I don’t like it when people- no stop looking at me!’
Thunderstruck I lower my hand, releasing a breath I did not know I had been holding. Speechless, glancing back at the sobbing girl I walk out of the bus. The rain is still falling, soaking me now. I watch as the dark red lights of the bus are lost as they advance through the pattering drops. Pulling off my hood, I leave the stop soaking and begin the long walk home.