Through the night

I turn my eyes from the window to find someone sitting next ot me. As he settles in, the smell of pepermint wafts to me. He hunches forward, in his own world. A hood covers his face allowing only my imagination to see what he really looks like. The bus turns and I feel his weight against one side and the window against the other. Callused hands worry each other, grasped polietly in his lap. Two ladies, seats ahead, talk about rent while a man at the front gesticulates wildly with his hands. A slight profile of my companion emerges. The reflection in the window allows a round nose and serious lips to escape the shadow of his hood. The bus is alive tonight. People talking, dreaming, feeling. The stopping of the bus gives me bursts of scent from my faceless partner. It's a constant reminder of his world, so close to me, yet somehow so untouchable. He rubs his face. People leave, the talking slows. The emotions don't. Looking out over the bus like my kingdom, the people are mine. Thier feelings, thoughts, worries have all become a burden on my shoulders. My companion puts his hands on the seat in front of us. Deliberatly, he stands, and exits. Into the night goes my silent friend. His face is still a mystery, but he has moved me. He has brought this pen to paper. But now we move on. My stop is next and I shall exit this space, never to return to the silent friend, the worry of rent, and the feel of that trip through the night.