Sprawl

It's a wet, slushy day. He clunks toward the back of the bus, where I'm seated in the middle seat on the long rear bench. Young and somewhat punkish, he is obviously coming from work - his pants are dirty and well-stained with paint. He hasn't shaved in a couple of days and his face is lined with peachy stubble. A soiled black ball cap covers his thick brown hair. He looks angry and emits a "don't bother me" aura.

His choice of seat is the sideways bench over the wheel well, and he spreads himself out with his loose posture and expansive personal space boundary. Thirty seconds later, he changes his mind and sits instead on the same bench as me, but on the extreme left. Slumping sloppily, he stretches his leg over the arm of the sideways bench in front of him and places his shoe on the cloth seat.

This irks me, as whoever will eventually sit there will end up with a wet bottom. But what can I say?

He takes off his hat and waves it idly in front of him; bad hair day. Eventually he slouches further, taking his foot off the bench and straddling it with his outstretched legs. "That can't be comfortable," I think.

There's my stop.