waiting at the bus-stop

i took the bus today. an hour and a half it took me to reach where i had to get. that's twice as long as usual. i walked a hot smoky distance to the stop, waited a really long time, got a thorough once over from a tired looking lady with insatiable eyes, and waited some more at a second stop a mere 2kms away from the first. it was the most together i felt all day. at one with the solitude of the masses and at once alive to the echoes inside.

waiting for a bus is one of the most carefree activities a frantic world offers us. it is such a simple thing. all that is asked of you is repose. to wait patiently for a certain number to show up on the top of your coughing chariot. control has been temporarily surrendered, so you needn't worry about whether you are making the best possible use of your time or if there isn't something else you should be doing. we are not used to this sudden suspension of expectation. so people fidget with their phones, go over their biology diagrams, spit and scratch in search of meaning, and read the antiquated bus schedule again.

but if you are in for the long haul, like i was today, your body soon catches up. you try and get comfortable using small, economical movements so as not to make unneccessary human contact. you lean against a pole. if you were younger you might have clutched it to your chest instead, swinging closely, and tasting the rust in your nose. or you dust off a bit of the pavement and sit down, carefully arranging your bag and things about you. feeling like an old woman with a precious bunch of keys.

or you might prefer to stay standing. set your feet a little apart, arrange your shoulders for maximum comfort, and weave your fingers into a cradle just under your chest. like you were about to recite a poem in school. some people sit on the bench, but that's usually a recreational spot. for boyfriend-girlfriends and vendors with jasmine to thread.

then there are the creative souls. they perch on that metal barrier in front of the bench, meant only to be leant on. on this they sit and swing their legs. it looks like fun. but it can be dangerous. once i saw a schoolgirl overcome with mirth at something her friend said. one minute she was turning pink and leaning back, and the next her pale legs and green panties were waving forlornly in the air. i didn't laugh because i suspected there was a moral in it for me.

of course, a busstop is far from a place of idyll charm. the eyes never stop looking for that ride out of here. once it arrives we turn back into purposeful soldiers with elbows of iron. but for a while there you were spectator, and someone else was holding the remote.