Strangers in a bus

There are things Tom never talked about. His house. His job. His love for chapati and the scent of the earth when those raindrops hit the ground. He woke up at five because fifteen minutes before that the Muezzin would summon all the faithfuls to the Mosque. He had his tea, black and strong with two slices of white Supa loaf bread.

When he got inside the bus at six, he never looked at the other passengers.
Maybe he did, but he never saw me.

He sat by the window always keeping on the driver’s side.
Sometimes depending on the bus he’d be stuck with that morning show about domestic issues and fall outs on Classic. You’d see him scrunch up his face, twist his lips as though he wanted to spit out the disgust that streamed into his ears, but he’d never utter a word.

He would keep his eyes outside the window until the bus came to a stop in town and then he would take his time and let everyone step out before finally taking in the bustle of that morning.
Sometimes when he did this,he had a smile like on Fridays. Sometimes he looked like he needed a hug, a reminder that someone still cared, like on Mondays.

There are things Tom never told anyone, like who he really was and why I was the only one who saw him.

One thought on “Strangers in a bus

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s