Waiting for the bus.

Five minute writing exercise #1. 

The street was empty.  Despite the heavy fog and gloom that had enveloped the city in a deceptively cool grey-blue tint since Tuesday, it was very, very hot.  After an unhurried walk to the bus stop and a subsequent wait spanning several immobile minutes, Laine licked her lips and could taste a thin layer of beaded sweat accumulating just above her perfectly symmetrical Cupid’s bow.  How attractive.  The bus is late. 

Laine watched as a woman in a flowy white dress bustled past in too-high wedge sandals, a bundle of rush and energy.  Nice shoes.  Prada?  I’ve always wanted a pair.  Black stitches, stacked heels, forest green leather straps that bind your fat piggy feet the way a crocodile crunches the bodies of writhing prey with its lustrous, sewage-water paws.  

“AAAHHHHHHHHHH!”

Sour grapes gone, Laine turned her attention to what sounded like the death cry of a man in pain originating from the nearest intersection.  The sound echoed down the street, marring the quiet, unpopulated setting with its anguish.  It was only one block away, but it was far enough that even the bright red glow of the traffic light was obscured by the pervading mist. 

Should I be concerned?

“EEEEEEEEEENNNNNNGGGH.”

This time, the tone of the cry Laine heard was not human.  It was longer, slower-but just as urgent-as its predecessor. It was followed by a steely screech of something heavy rubbing against gravel.  The machine came into view, barreling out of control down the street.  It swerved violently for two long, Mississippi seconds before crashing into a street light across from the bus stop.

There was silence.        

Laine took a sip of pink lemonade from her glass water bottle and stepped off the sidewalk.  She walked across the road to greet the much anticipated vehicle, now lying pathetically on its side. The bus had arrived, with pomp and circumstance.