The Bus Stop
Leela Aravind
Leela Aravind
I watch headlights stretch into long white lines, illuminating a harsh contrast against the dark gray sky.
The bus finally arrives and the long doors sigh open, exhausted from facilitating passengers all day.
A girl with light purple headphones hums along to a song meant exclusively for her ears, inaccessible to the rest of us.
A coffee cup abandoned on the curb tips over and leaks into the gutter, swimming along the edge and dripping into the dark sewer.
The bus is always late. We pretend we don’t notice.
Our small crowd trudges on inside, the air void of any whispers. Carrying our damp shoes and reservedness, we decide where to sit, somehow aiming to avoid each other.
The bus pulls away from the stop. I watch as it becomes empty again, as if it never knew us.
Every night, the bus stop smells like rain and old metal. Even when it hasn’t rained.
A man with a cracked phone screen stands at the edge of the sidewalk, thumbing countless videos away per second, immersed in his own digital world.