How it was.
I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes, watching the other buses role past and kick up spay, the damp slowly rising up my trouser legs. I wonder where all the 43 busses go when the sun goes down and the rain falls. Perhaps they migrate south.
Eventually, a single decker, left alone and struggling to cope. Through the heavily steamed windows I make out a heaving mass of people inside, and once aboard I can only hover in the door well, next to the driver, standing well forward of that notice - the notice that, as all bur riders know, we are not supposed to stand forward of.
I allow my eyes to wander across the sea of faces: such diversity. As we push southwards the passengers begin to thin, the bus breathing a sigh of relief as more people get off than on, and I find a seat behind a ginger haired student reading a book on the histories of women’s imprisonment.
There is no moral to this brief anecdote, it offers no emotional cadence and has no witty remarks to wrap it up, because this is not a story with an ending, this is just how it was.