Passenger

Every day, I take the bus home from work. We’re always packed like sardines, people filling every seat and empty corner. Sometimes I can’t even see the escape hatch from where I’m sitting. In case there’s an emergency, you know. It could happen, all these people on board. 

Sometimes, on days when I don’t want anyone to sit near me, I’ll pile all my personal belongings, parcels, books, backpack, briefcase, lunch bag, on the seat beside me. They claim an empty space next to me, leaving me a tall tower to hide behind. As other passengers board, I shrug apologetically. 

On other days, sometimes, I’ll stick my umbrella across the seat beside me. If someone dares enough to ignore it and sit his padded ass down on top of it, I stick it out—jabbing them in their soft belly, almost gently, so they think it’s an accident. I smile, sorry about that. 

Sometimes, on days when I don’t want anyone to sit near me, I’ll stick my feet in the aisle, crossed at the ankles. And then when the overweight woman wearing lilac-coloured track pants skips down the aisle, she’ll stumble, rolling forward and grasping for a bar to hold her up. Oops, sorry. My legs are too long. 

One day, on a day when I don’t want anyone to sit next to me, I want to bring a gun and shove it in someone’s back, exactly the way you did to me. 

[word count: 246 / start 25 April 2006 – end 26 June 2006]

© 2006 by A. Grange, all rights reserved.