He blushes and she wants to wave his hand from his face and tussle his hair and kiss his lovely mouth. Instead, she passes the hat back and smiles. She thinks; I’m aware of us only. She looks away though, returning to the agony of public transport. What to say, where to start?
The bus lurches to a stop following suit of the driver’s retiring heart. His head falls forward; his body ill prepared for the shock comes to rest on the steering wheel. Panicked voices cry for emergency services as he grunts spasmodically and spittle is flung onto the glass in the futility of the moment. In his mind, he screams injustice and cries for his ghosts to end it, who in turn hammer his lungs and beat his failing heart. He feels the specific moment reality comes blundering into the bus, into his mind. Shattering the glass and cracking the ceilings with its high-pitched screams of existence. Jumping down his throat, forcing the honest truth into his arteries, and sitting on his lungs for a front row seat so as to …