An explosion of colour
There we all sit in the bus, in our winter drab – grey and black and khaki, with the odd touch of dark brown for variety.
Look straight ahead, don’t make eye contact, keep to your own little world. If you can tune everything out but the music coming through your headphones, so much the better. Project a psychic space around yourself to discourage anyone from taking that empty seat next to you.
Outside is grey, on the edge of winter, a nothing kind of weather. Inside is warm, with that draining warmth of heaters turned on and windows firmly shut. A week before Christmas, but no kind of Christmas spirit.
The bus is just about to pull away from the stop when she leaps on – out of breath, but laughing, rummaging in the seemingly endless depths of her harlequin patchwork bag for a purse. Every movement makes her bright scarves flutter like a cloud of shimmering butterflies.
Don’t stare, don’t act as if there is anything out of the ordinary, most of all don’t let her catch your eye.
Her smile says “Forgive me” without being apologetic in the least. “What can you do?” her raised eyebrow suggests, “A bag is bound to fill with clutter.”
She shakes her head in mock frustration, and the rainbows of beads in her hair click and bounce. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere, honey, won’t be a moment.” And if more than a moment, no matter, she seems to suggest. The world is bright enough, kind enough, full enough to make waiting a small thing.
If you let yourself look at her, you'll be lost. Who knows what might happen?
She catches my eye, and smiles straight at me. An explosion of colour.
Crossposted to artspark