I have been standing at this bus stop for the last forty-five minutes, waiting for a bus that looks like doesn’t want to come.
In the period of time between I got off from work until now, I got slowly but steadily wetter with every drop of rain that was hitting my clothes, making them heavier with each passing minute.
Finally headlights on my right announce the arriving of the bus that will bring me home.
The driver stops the red giant in front of me, opening the front door and welcoming with what looks like a very forced, out-of-politeness, smile.
“ ‘Evening” I mutter just under my breath, I don’t even know if he heard me and, being completely honest, I don’t really care if he did.
I pull my hood down and quickly scan the interior of the bus.
There are only four or five people sharing this journey with me and, for my liking, there are four of five too many people.
I start walking slowly towards the end of the central corridor, where it is most likely I could find some warmth coming up from the engine; while proceeding my hear catch the high pitched conversation, one of the ladies sitting in the first line of seats, is having on the phone with what seems like to be a friend of her.
She is chatting about one of her nurse colleagues whom has an affair with the cardiologist in her ward and about how much she should be ashamed of herself since the man is married with children. “You should just mind your own business, hypocritical judgemental.” I think, while taking another step towards my still far away seat.
On the seat symmetrical to her, another woman is sitting, looking outside the window matted with strikes of raindrops. I have the impression she is looking out, but her attention is focussed on the conversation the other woman has having (which is quite easy to catch, since she is almost shouting in that microphone).
What catch my attention of this second woman is her hands. The skin covering them looks way more older than the skin on her face: I wonder what her story is, if she has been doing a job her all life that has been slowly weathering her hands or if she has been exposed to long hours of sunshine, being able to cover only her face maybe with a wide hat. If the option is the latter, I wonder where she was leaving before being in this miserable country (for sure you don’t get such a strong sunshine here in UK).
Right behind her sits a man, dressed with what looks like a very fine jacket and tie combination; his head resting on the window, soundly asleep; every exhale leaves a shade of steam on the window that almost fades when inhaling. His arms are crossed on his chest as if trying to instinctively warm himself against the unforgivable weather. On his legs rest a leathery black briefcase with the JP Morgan chase logo embroidered on the bottom-left of the front pocket. It must have been a long day of trading.
The last two person that separate me from my seats are two girls, probably in their mid-twenty going home from what must have been a very good night out. One is asleep on the left shoulder of her friend, which is scrolling absent mindedly on her phone, probably checking the last updated from her instagram’s feeds or maybe deciding on which is the best picture of the evening that can be uploaded on her profile.
I walk past.
I sit. It is as warm as I was hoping.
I put on my headphone and reach for my phone in my right pocket.
I wake the screen up and touch the play button on the Spotify widget in the middle of the lockscreen.
Immediately Chester’s voice rings in my hear.
He is right once more, “In the end, it doesn’t even matter”.
I close my eyes.