She's middle-aged, slim and petite, and her Celtic complexion and the weariness of the day combine to make her appear somewhat frumpy. I've seen her on the bus many times; I think her uniform is for a security firm.
She approaches an open seat near the back of the bus but doesn't sit down, instead grabbing the support bar above her head to keep her balance as she stands on the swaying bus. The she glances at her raised hand and then down at her jacket pocket. She reaches in with the other hand and pulls out a tissue; I suspect she's about to blow her nose.
Instead, she releases her grip on the bar, puts the tissue flat in her hand, and grabs the bar again - hand now safe from the lingering remnants of whoever last touched that spot. She looks somewhat longingly at the empty seat next to her, but a hint of disdain for public germs is in her visage as she continues to stand.
Me, I'm seated comfortably and probably touched about five support bars on this bus without a second thought. But I can't help but wonder from where exactly I picked up the cold bug I'm currently fighting.
There's her stop.
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Everywhere you look, there is a story. This blog was an experiment in storytelling, drawn from true life in the most mundane setting known to Western civilization: the city bus. I no longer post here, but am leaving it active for posterity's sake.
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