Indigenous Not

An orange shirt guy enters with apprehension, glancing left and right and heads halfway into the coach. He sits one ass-cheek and one ass cheek only on the barest edge. Just before he extracts his smart phone from his pocket, then forever tilts his head down into that little glowing screen. His eyes never again are lifted from this pose, at least for this bus ride.

A woman, skinny, long bushy red hair arranged in a topknot with yellowish tinged skin slinks by via the aisle aft. The burning and oppressive rank scent of recently spent cigarette butts buffets the air at her passing. I sense my throat constricting, my nose wrinkling, my eyes watering. My mind supplies interrogatives rather than declaratives. 

The moving picture out the window yields a polished steel sculpture of squares swept in a wavy pattern up from a platform. There must be six or seven of them. They're close to the town's City Hall building. Why they call it a "hall" is anyone's guess. It resembles it not. Regardless someone in there thought it was a good idea so they did it. So there it is, sitting out there instilling mental images of perhaps a frozen acid trip frame. Indeed.