Pablo runs a hand over his forehead. Hot and sweaty. He can taste the stale taste of beer on the back of his tongue. He swallows and it feels harsh and sore on his throat.
He presses his head against the plastic window. It is cool and reassuringly solid. He closes his eyes for a moment and focuses on the half remembered outlines of buildings and trees beyond the window. When he opens his eyes they remain. Still there.
The bus narrates his journey in broken sentences and phrases. “65, to, Ealing Broadway… calling at”
Pablo tastes the salt dripping down the worn grooves in his face, reaching the edges of his lips. He tries to get comfy on his seat and ignore the blaring noise of the other passengers.
He focuses on what is there and reassuring. Pressing his head closer against the cool glass, he focuses on it’s own existence, and nothing else. The further from this pane of glass, the less of importance to the universe it exists. He presses against it, and becomes one with the universe. He presses against it, and lets the bus narrate him home.
No comments
Comments feed for this article
Trackback link: http://holdingpatterns.hwcommunity.com/2009/04/29/sixty-five/trackback/