There’s a girl who catches the morning bus with me every day. Doesn’t matter which bus I take, she’ll always be there, in one of the back rows, usually in the window seat, with a dreamy look in her eyes and white earpods in her ears.
I always notice when her eyes flutter toward the petrol prices when the bus takes the turn and passes the petrol station. The numbers, 125.7, 136.9, 108.5, they fluctuate so much for unleaded ethanol. She doesn’t even know how to drive, but the numbers interest her. When the bus goes onto the highway, she probably forgets about the numbers. She looks for the morning clouds, the ones that bloom and blossom in the distance with an array of lolly oranges and light blues. She likes the sombre greys, though. That’s why June is her favourite month. Well, I don’t know for sure if it’s hers, but it sure as hell is mine.
Sometimes, when we pass the clouds, she’ll fall asleep on her bag. I don’t know how she does it. I only find it comfortable to fall asleep on a desk or in my own bed. She’s quite amazing. I comprehend the glazed look now. It’s because she’s always so tired. A girl stays up late into the night, regrets it in the morning, falls asleep on the bus, but she never misses her stop. She sets an alarm on her phone, but it always wakes her up a few stops before her final destination.
And the cycle repeats. At some point, though, the girl is going to graduate, and then she might move, and then I might never see her again.
Such is life.