The clip-clop gravelly steps ring out into the dense morning air. Their only accompaniment is two dark figures painted into virtual silhouettes that appear under a pale orange lamp that diminishes rapidly under the thick unwavering darkness. A deep breath through the nose is drawn inward to which hints of ozone and earth are discerned by the maker of such a relative racket that approaches with cool nonchalant demeanor.
“Good morning,” the still figure greets the pacing one that just now comes to a stop.
“Good morning,” the other replies, taking note of the extended examination that the initial greeter takes of him, to which he displays an absolute impassiveness at this curious contemplation as if much more needs to be said but not.
However, the morning greeter turns away eventually back to his loitering pose to the subject at hand. The other in turn, breathes deeply once again, ascertaining the scent of evergreen and the tinge of leaf mold scattered about the dampness leftover from the hard rain of yesterdays now existing in the past.
Sooner than expected, these two characters board the bus, and with measured rhythmic ambles make their laborious Monday morning ways to their chosen rows. The greeter selects a row all the way to the rear, while the other sets his heavy satchel down, scoots under it, and then sets himself adjacent to the window behind the rear doors.
Nothing much occurs now, except the constant and consistent task of the bus halting tediously multiple times along the way, where various passengers embark, then to rest themselves, scan the open flaps of newspapers, start embroidery projects, administer the stiff application of lipstick, gaze silently out of cold weathered windows into the slack predawn gloom, or listen haphazardly to the driver croaking a murmuring announcement as to the location-current.
Still, more occurs than what is presumed, for the surfaces that one initially sees are merely a manufactured façade, an attempt to show a good face (for the most part), a semblance of masks that would portray something entirely different, completely adverse to those trepidations within.
For instance, take the lipstick applier, clearly stressed about some upcoming event, she sighs repeatedly, swallows, checks her email on her portable device in a wired sort of way, stretches her neck this way and that, and turns the corner of her thin lips downward into a spitting replica of dreary despondency. –Or perhaps the ravenous newspaper reader that religiously scours those pages, but that intermittently gazes out from under her curved-billed red cap with fully attentive regalia, always giving away these distracting flashes of consideration to no one in particular. –Or an older brunette sitting up in the front forward-facing row, past her prime but avariciously like hell endeavoring to keep a definite hold onto her waning youth, with an extra special smile directed to every younger male that happens by, her shiny castaña hue of her hair that drank from a bottle, an interest only in speaking publicly to much older females thusly developing a speculated sharp visible contrast. –Or even returning to that one who sits behind the rear doors that presently scribbles savagely some sort of unknown content with utter intensity within the confines of a little black book that could fit almost anywhere…
