Bus Stop

18 Jan

The sort of bus stop that I wondered who ever could have used it–a single sign, no bench, no covering, and a pile of garbage strewn underneath it.  Row after row of filthy lots and closed warehouses, old factories with cemented in windows.  Darkness–a single dingy streetlamp almost designed to accentuate the darkness.   The people in the bus, even the kids in the back, got quiet near this darkness, and outside was absolute silence, as if we were a hundred miles from anywhere, the light inside the bus, as dim as it was, making us feel watched and unwelcome–vulnerable.  I tried to press my face to the window, to see better–and the people on the bus started talking more loudly, more nervously about sports, about work, about weather, about anything.  The girl in the front with the greasy hair still squinting into her book, moving the pages along at a steady clip never looked up at all, but then again she never would.

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