Ruth Yilla
BUS 50 I walked to the bus station.
It was not there yet. A strange one came. It was the 21. My heart was not with it, and I didn’ t get on. It drove away. I walked to the other stop and back; I wasn’ t sure. I’ m never sure. The coins jingle in my hand. I was embarrassed.
Nothing says " I ' ve run out of money " than coins. Are they not a mark of poverty? Newer crisp papers are the way to go, or so I’ ve come to believe.
The bus arrives, 50 that is. I get on with my coins in my hand. The bus driver is a woman. The people in line after me get on. There’ s a lot of them. I sit down, not in the two front seats but in the seat behind those two. Why? So that no old and elderly person can look at me with pity in their eyes, expectedly waiting for me to get up and say, " Here, have my seat." As I walk past, I think to myself,“ Am I selfish? Am I heartless?”. I’ m not sure. I haven’ t decided yet.
I sit and make myself comfortable, as comfortable as I can get on a bus, which isn’ t much. People get on the bus. Some blend into the background, with nothing noticeable about them. This older woman with a hoarse, dried-out voice walks in. People already seated make a show about getting up and letting her have their seat. She, in turn, made a show about where to sit, and then finally she did. They smile, and say‘ it’ s fine’, she responds‘ thank you’ a million times before she sits down. This man gave up his seat, and now he must go upstairs. The more she talks, the more I wonder
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