I step up on to the blue plastic floor and make my way to a seat,
away from everyone.

It smells like a stale aired airport, and sweat.

Somebody coughs, someone else sneezes. Spilled coffee trails across the blue floor with every acceleration and break.

I sit in the back next to the window, alone.

4 minutes and 3 blocks of silence.

The bus stops.

People flood my quiet morning commute-filling any open seat and space.

My elbow bounces against the knee that belongs to the person next to me.

He is reading the Wall Street Journal. The recycled paper is tinted pink. He is reading about finance.

Words that are too far away to see. Words I wouldn’t understand anyway.

His black hair is oily and straight. It only grows on the sides, just above his ears. The top of his head is probably the only empty brown surface on his body.

I wonder what his name is.

I don’t think he has a wife.

The backpack on his lap is knocking into mine.

With every stop on Michigan avenue the bus begins to empty.

The man next to me gets off at the Wrigley building.

I go three more stops and my day begins.

To work, to home, and back again; I take the bus and I meet its people.