Do I Taste Onions?

They glance up then spit on the sidewalk. Cigarette smoke wafts after the saliva is expelled giving the illusion that the splat might have been steaming. I sit on a metal mesh bench with a glass semi barrier separating me from them. It does little to suspend the smoke's assault. The scent is heavy in the sun-leaden air. Shadows even elicit themselves in gaseous form. Soon after the two lift themselves after a moment of bemusement then move off. I don't observe where, nor do I care. More and more I become a fixture of apathy. It happens for whatever reason, but as always for the most part by choice.

A woman walks from the north down 4th Avenue South yelling something intelligible. When she arrives at the bus shelter, she proclaims that "this bus here will take me home!" to the world at large. I look up at the route and it's my own. It's like she fills in my thoughts for me. I follow her on and hear her make the same exclamation to the muscle-shirt attired driver. Actually I'm not sure if it is a muscle shirt. The sleeves are just short, really short. I head aft and take the seat behind the back door.

Soon muffled voices work their way through the music in my headphones. I attempt to look back but accidentally lock eyes with an expressionless young woman also listening to earphones. I go back to scanning the phone trying to ignore everyone squeezing into the bus. I fail at this however. The interior fills to standing room only. The loud talking in the back continues to bleed through. I suddenly recall lunch. The memory is fleeting and doesn't inspire much.

Inspiration. Aspiration. Yeah I had been "officially asked" to provide what does and which I possess respectively. I provided answers, flavored with my style of delivery, whatever that is. I'm sure there will be someone to relate what their opinion is about it. Yes, there are many of those, so many. There is no escape from that.

Do I taste onions?