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the bus waits for you. 

or did you wait for the bus? you dont remember waiting, or standing, or doing much at all other than walking down that street of light and rain. maybe you both happened upon each other. maybe you had set up an appointment. 

you are glad you didn’t miss the appointment. you don’t like being late. the doors open, and the driver doesn’t look at you. they don’t appear impatient or harried but you know that they won’t leave without you. the front of the bus bows, a mechanism of hydraulics and politesse. 

inside, the lights are harsh, but you feel safe. you pay for your two hour ticket with the worry coin that finds its way in your pocket sometimes. there are two other people on the bus, and neither of them look at you. the doors close behind you, sealing in the stale fluorescent air.