A Mutual Armrest

I caught a bus and thought this.

F**k it. The wind is actually so rapturous.

The bus stopped, and this time it didn’t feign recess. I slipped into my jersey, kicked my bag further under my seat, and followed the other passengers towards the front of the bus. As I reached the its tip, a gush of warm wind swept up my jumpsuit. No need for this extra layer at all. I wandered into the ladies and endured a small queue. The hand dryer had ‘out of serice’ printed and stuck on it. My jersey was useful for one thing. I smothered my hands with it.

Honestly, the silhouette of the mountain, behind poles, petrol stands and cars was one of the most exquisite things. It made me feel like I could ride a bus forever; resting my forehead against the pane and being satisfied with just looking. Just watching. I walked back to the bus, lit up a cigarette, and stood near the other smokers. I flexed my body before another tedious round of concavity. I was then suddenly overcome by a yearning for liquid. I bolted back into the garage, grabbed a Coke and left R10 on the counter. I mounted the bus just in time, the lights stuttered off.

I brought out my sketch book and pencil. I just started shading, drawing the parking sign,  a netted building, a city... My ear phones still plugged into me; this was bliss. I love participating in life with music as the only sound. They were in the entire time. The bathroom, with only the faint sound of flushing. Filtering in. Standing their smoking, bobbing my head, swinging my arms with untraceable rhythm.  

I still have the picture that the man next to me drew. You see, we didn't talk, but I gathered that he wanted to from his movements. So I supplied him, and he left his illustration in my sketch pad to my untamed joy and surprise.