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Bus Story: Personal Volume at 11

June 2, 2010

We’re smooshed together on the ole 54 this evening as we head home. The return to work following a 3-day weekend and the Tuesday-as-Monday Overload has the mood set at a somber, somewhat plodding pace. We hear her before we see her. Even before she rockets aboard, her voice cuts through the massive body of the articulated bus like an X-Acto knife through a piece of tissue paper. No idea what she’s going on about; it’s all I can do to keep my balance as her voice threatens to puncture my inner ear. Then she arrives, blathering to some poor schlub she has in tow. Her hair is jet black – as only Ms Clairol can produce. Her lipstick is screaming red, as are her shoes, bag, and piping on her otherwise cream-colored blouse. Her skirt, well, really a ballerina tu-tu, is the same black as her hair with little bows of the same assaulting red. Somewhere deep inside her is a demure, poised woman of grace and sophistication. But today, on this bus, she is loud enough to topple the walls of Jericho and take the moon out of it’s orbit.

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From → Bus Stories

One Comment
  1. Elizabeth permalink

    OMG! What a description! I’m cackling. You are just a master at the art of imagery. Thanks for making my day!

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