Thursday, 1 October. The afternoon bus was the last one out, and it stopped one place later than the board had said.
I took the window on the left. The seat covers were a hard yellow, and red curtains hung at the glass, tied so a person could still see past them. A black bag sat under the seat across the aisle. It was not mine. Someone had pushed it in far enough that a foot would miss it. I kept my own bag on my lap until the bus moved, then set it by my shoes. The aisle was narrow. Two rows ahead, a coat lay over a headrest, and nobody reached for it while I watched.
We waited at the stop longer than the board allowed. When the bus pulled away, nobody called the next places. I watched the buildings thin. At the following stop a person got on, looked along the yellow seats, and sat two rows behind me. They did not speak. I did not either. The curtain on my side slipped, and I tied it again, badly, so a strip of the glass stayed open. Outside, the light was already going flat.
I got off where I meant to. That was not the stop written on the board. The driver did not name it. I stood, took my bag, and stepped down. The yellow seats kept other people’s quiet. That is the ride as I have it: late by one stop, a window, and a bag under a seat that was not mine. I would take the same afternoon bus again if the board is wrong in that same small way.