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Bus Story: Waiting His Turn

July 14, 2016

Making some assumptions about the amount of time he spent getting ready this morning, he must have set his alarm for 3:30 a.m. Perched, ever so, on the edge of a seat, so as not to muss the tailored edge of his jacket, he is a study in gray. His bespoke jacket and trousers, both a dark charcoal, complement his waistcoat, which is a faint herringbone of a lighter fog gray, combined with a green found at the edges of an evergreen forest. A slightly lighter gray-striped shirt rests beneath, adorned by a tie, beribboned in peridot and slate. Perfectly shined Oxford brogues, in a gray so dark as to be almost indistinguishable from black, are resting on the floor of the bus; you can almost feel the anxiety emanating from his beautiful shoes as they touch the less-than-immaculate bus aisle.

His face is ageless. He could be twenty or sixty. A tightly trimmed beard and mustache, gray like the steam of a locomotive, adorn his face, and resting against his nose are wire-frame glasses, shining in the morning light, nary a smudge or a scratch on their lenses. And lastly, like a wreath on Caesar’s head, a perfectly trimmed crown of short hair finishes the look, itself a mourning dove gray color. 

The look on his placid face is one of patience with a slight tinge of boredom. It makes sense. During his off-season, the avatar of the winter sky has nothing but time to get dressed and ride the bus.


From → Bus Stories

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