The Night Bus

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

     So I wrote a thing. I want to call it Perfect Strangers, but that's too cliche. So for now, this is called City Lights, Tears, and Battle Scars The Night Bus. Enjoy, and spill all of your lovely thoughts! x

     City lights. It's late at night on a crisp fall day. A young man in a long coat, hands in his pockets is walking on the sidewalk by a fence.
     The weather is cold enough for his breath to be visible, and each step he takes crunches another set of dead leaves that have been scattered aimlessly across the sidewalk.
     Across the sidewalk, across grass, across the street; he walks. He walks until he reaches an abandoned bus stop, where he pulls out a cigarette, swiftly putting it in his mouth as he pulls a lighter out.
     He flicks it a few times. The flame doesn't catch, or he thinks better of it, and he puts both into a coat pocket, and loosens the scarf around his neck.
     He sits down.
     Approximately fifteen chaotically tranquil minutes filled with crickets chirping and light Indie music later, a young girl approaches the opposite side of the bench where the young man is sitting. She doesn't see him, and she sits, the young thing, with her knees up to her chest.

     He tries not to notice her posture, preoccupied by his own misery, until he hears sniffles. He promptly slides over towards her and offers a clean-but-balled-up tissue. All without looking at her.
     What he misses, due to his empathetic respect, is a young fifteen year old girl grab the tissue and turn towards him with her tear-streaked cheeks.
     What he doesn't miss, due to his empathetic respect, is a young broken soul, much like his, clutch his shoulder, her hands gripping his arm. Her fingers squeeze, tighter and tighter, grasping his limb as though it were a lifeline. He doesn't miss her head on his shoulder, nor does he miss the way her tears fall onto his coat, lingering for just a second above the material, before merging with the soft fabric. He doesn't miss the kiss from her tears to the tears in his skin.
     His empathetic respect, his utter respect for her, is lovely. Simply...lovely. He doesn't even steal a glance. He just sits back, leaning his head atop hers, as they both wait for a bus that isn't coming.
     A bus that won't come.
     He sighs, and lights his cigarette.


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