Parson’s and pardons pale in comparison to an elective beauty in the eliminated nightly line, grasping safety bars and jostling in a single car into the dark transit of fumigated city lights. Stained damp seats, bodies odorous of a long day’s work, stench of the working man and woman. The lights inside the cabin of the bus eradicate outside sources of the intangible stuff, and a faint world passes by in an illegible flash. Trickling fountains of youth can be seen within courtyards of emptied corporate complexes, and a junkie, plucking the strung-out strand of his life’s thread, snips the last cord on a park bench covered in pigeon shit.
This is your transit of the mind. It is a jarring and fear-inducing experience every time, coupled with the stress of finding yourself late for the last bus that will get you somewhere and having to sit next to the craziest person imaginable. It is always too cold or too hot. You can recount the dozens of times a drunk or perverted man has come into some semblance of inappropriate physical contact. There was that time when the drunk with the pizza box in his lap completely fell asleep on you, as though he were laying down on a bed, or that time the young man followed you home because you owed it to him to perform sexual intercourse, or that time a bum smelled your hair…. the list goes on. You pull your white windbreaker closer as your mind sparks with these tiny traumas.
You look around the bus for Lynne, but she is not one of the many unrecognizable faces plastered on the back of these citizen’s heads. They all stare at you, necks craned to be completely backwards of their body, and it does not trouble you. You hope this trip will send you somewhere that you can at least find your friend. A few of these non-descripts exit, and the last person that steps out of the door sends an icy pain through your heart as their blur departs.
Him, you whisper. It physically hurts when you say his name, and the stingy pain sears into the tip of your index finger. You look down to see a alien version of a wasp stinging you, thrashing its body upon your flesh. You swipe it off in a flurry, but the pain remains.
Primordial passions of a personage that no longer lingers in the mind or the loins dipping its inhuman foot into the night terrors of an ex-victim… He is always away in a flash, never stopping to be admired or despised, he was meant to be chased, to be needed but now only appears when you… well you don’t know why. Maybe this is true trauma, you wonder. It is completely misunderstood, why the past is taking a battering ram to your good nature and ability to move beyond your heartaches.