There is always one girl on the bus who has been traveling long distances: maybe the two miles between her apartment and her boyfriend’s, between one part time job and the next, between an internship and homework. This girl bleaches her hair, now it hangs drab down her back, bunched crooked into a ponytail. She has invariably stuffed too-bright pajama pants into the warm maws of Ugg boots. A little suitcase blocks her into a sectional of two seats, omitting entry or exit; she juggles a giant coffee from McDonalds in one hand, keeps rearranging the strap of a cheap almost-stylish purse with a few too many rhinestones glued to the outer pockets. Her mascara runs a little. She yawns; the light is serene. When she stands up to exit the bus, jet-lagged from the last few miles, she stumbles down the aisle, suitcase in tow, coffee tipping precariously out of fingers (chipped black nail polish), keys jangling out of a generous coat pocket. 

Despite the pajamas, the sense you get that she does this every day, this girl never looks at home, or happy, or well-rested, or garnished with fruits and vegetables and affection. She looks tired, like a travel-size jar of melatonin, a chapstick without a lid collecting lint at the bottom of a purse. 

Notes

  1. northofnow reblogged this from cityography
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    transition. Now.
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