The Girl on the Bus

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She sits on the opposite side of the bus from me, but I can see her reflection in the window against the backdrop of the night. A beanie resting on the back of her head, black curls escaping over the side of her face, casting shadows over her freckles. She has earphones in, and she stares off out of the window, into some unattainable distance.

I wonder if I would like the music she is listening to.

She seems distracted, distracting herself, lost in her music or the rain on the windows, or the unfathomable nature of the night. Once, she glances up, and awkward eye contact leads to a bright smile, lighting up her eyes, that quickly fades away as her window watching resumes. I watch my window, but really, I am watching her.

She gets off the bus several stops before I do, and for half a moment I am tempted to confront her, say, hey, you’re cute, what are you listening to? Or, hey, I’m Claire, what’s your name? Or even just, hey. I think she looks like an Amy. I’ll call her Amy in my mind.

Amy thanks the bus driver and departs, standing for a second in the rain before shouldering her bag and walking away, past the hazy light of the streetlamps casting fractured circles against the rain-spotted glass. I don’t go confront Amy when she gets off the bus, she’d probably think I was a creep. She might not be into girls, might sneer, would probably be confused as to why this random bus-girl appears to be following her like a lost puppy in the dark. She wouldn’t want to hang about in the rain, anyway.

The bus departs with a jolt, and I watch as Amy fades into the night, sigh, and fill my own ears with music, ignoring the scene around me. It doesn’t do to dwell on the unknowable lives of other people. It doesn’t do to dwell on beanies in the rain.

I wonder if I’ll ever see her on the bus again.

 


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