The Uncaring Passenger

It’s late and the bus is empty. It’s always late. The bus is always empty. Those are the constants of life for the lone passenger as the bus winds its way through the twilit city streets.

The man in the back lights a cigarette. It may be a smoking bus. It may not be. At any rate, he’s alone with his thoughts and vices. Outside, nighthawks are everywhere. The passenger watches them from his mobile fortress, enjoying a drag of things past. They flash by framed in closing lights, each of them in their own world from which they cannot escape. Eyes brimming with drained souls. The passenger appreciates their effort and the irony of it all. He certainly can’t fault them - he’s at home in the night as well. Turning away from the burning moths stuck behind the glass, he tries to get some sleep.

The bus passes everything. Gas lamps and sodium arcs. Shuttered windows and desolate parks. Monsoon rains, ruins and hitch-hikers. The grey behemoth plies all waters, its passenger the king of nought which he surveys.

Time drips away behind his eyes just as it does beyond the confines of his ride. Explosions of brightly stabbing light swivel past in endless instants. His slumber offers vistas of vibrant desolation nearly identical to those outside. Derelict clock towers, fallen libraries, foundered industry and ancient abandoned homes supported by autumnal scents of forest, dust, oiled rope and dying flowers. The passenger pushes the brazen gears away and diverts his gaze outward. He knows he cannot rouse from this slumber, merely relish a change in perspective.

The streetlights cast slivers of silver through the windows of the dimly lit bus, illuminating the passenger and his accommodations. His face looks old and withered in the window. Older than he remembers.

If only he could remember where the bus was going. He smiles wryly as he thumbs his Zippo. It may be a smoking bus. It may not be. Probably not.