When he’s there, she sits and watches the man who drives our bus with a look of passion in her eyes, that suggests his hands don’t merely turn a wheel, but paint classics more stunning than Botticelli’s. I roll my eyes. She talks like a bird eats: quick suspicious movements, bobbing of the head, and staccato conversation. He looks in the mirror and smiles behind sunglasses. I roll my eyes. I wonder if he’ll get into a wreck because he can’t talk to her and drive at the same time. His constant hitting of the breaks, mimics what it might be like for the two of them to have sex: awkward and full of unnecessary stops. She laughs at something he says. High pitched and shrill. I roll my eyes. The entire bus is here to witness this intimate union every time he stops to speak. Our bodies lurch forward and back in keeping up with his jerking thrusts. I did not ask to be apart of this orgy. Stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go.
I roll my eyes.
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