#22

the bus pulls up and and squeaks to a stop and i climb on. the toll reader beeps in welcome. i select a seat towards the front and watch folks shuffle on one after the other. a man sits in front of me, a silver flask shining in his hand. lifts it to his mouth and he pulls slowly from it, savoring the contents, his adams apple bouncing beneath his skin as he swallows. not at all trying to hide his transgression. i begin to read and become lost in the story and look up and he is gone. and look up and i am on the bridge. and look up and i am nearly home. i thank the bus driver and he wishes me a good night as i step off into the cool dark.