Bitter morning air floated through the N18 bus headed toward Sudbury. Someone had left the window open at the front. Again. But she wouldn’t be the one to close it. Once you’re sat in this bus your fate is sealed. See, it takes the scenic route. Though there’s not much to see in early morning darkness, it’s been said that there are big houses there. Then after the scenic route, a dual carriageway. And then it chugged on a bit further, maybe at this point you pick up some school kids and the atmosphere lightens up a little. She takes it all the way to the end, where all of a sudden it’s bright outside and being awake feels natural.
She likes to vary her activities day to day but there’s always one constant, her flask. Bought in an Asda maybe, four years ago now? This chipped, pink flask was a trusty companion. It could be filled with anything that felt like home. Today was oats with a drizzle of golden syrup. Usually complemented by some tangled earphones, today that was not the case. Who knew they constructed those things so poorly? So as a cruel punishment for never upgrading to some better brand, she was forced to sit listening to the droll of the bus.
The bus was certainly a noisy thing. After a while it all goes quiet as you learn to tune out the orchestra of beeps and buzzes and bumps. Though today, on this Monday morning, a new noise decided to be heard. At about a quarter of a way through her journey, a short, stout man had asserted himself across from her. She politely tucked her legs to the side and glanced him up and down. He had something stuck in his teeth and insisted on getting it out right at that moment. He jammed his fingers in between each tight crevice, managing to miss the stubborn glob of spinach every time. She couldn’t imagine what goes through someones head. Their hands start on their bank card, who knows how many ATMs have imprinted themselves on it. Then they clasp each soiled pole on the bus like a monkey swinging along vines in a jungle, totally care free. She always avoided touching the poles. And then the very gall of him to put that hand into his mouth. It showed absolutely zero self respect.
After giving up and allowing the triumphant piece of food to take refuge in his large mouth, he made it his mission to sigh as loudly as possible. At every bus stop. As though the bus stopping (which is a pretty sure assumption whenever one decides to ride the bus) was a colossal inconvenience to him. He'd turn back toward the front of the bus, which was quite a task considering the size of his stomach, and glare at the newest passenger. She hated being near him, not wanting to be associated with his attitude. She had a reputation to uphold here! She rode this bus every day and despite never speaking to a single fellow passenger, she recognised an unspoken mutual respect between the warriors of the night turned day.
She began running through all of the options in her head. Her initial response was to be polite- "excuse me, would you mind keeping it down a little?" But these kinds of people didn't understand politeness, their concept of etiquette resided in a cobwebby corner of their psyche. No, she would be aggressive- "do you really need to sigh every time the bus takes a pause? You won't have any air left in your lungs by the time it’s your stop!" But that just wasn't her. She wanted to minimise the risk of getting into a fight and consequently being thrown off of the bus. She couldn't risk that; she had places to be. She settled upon the best and most obvious option, moving away.
Once the bus had heaved to a stop, and the man punctuated this with a sigh once again, she peeled herself from her seat and hopped across to a different, colder spot. This wasn’t her ideal scenario as this new position was on the right side of the bus, meaning she couldn’t observe the oncoming passengers at the bus stops as she usually did on the left side. She’d given up that privilege today. She liked seeing who was coming on board. She wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, but if that one handsome man who wore the trilby boarded at Harrow-on-the-hill bus station like he usually did, her posture would straighten. The bus rumbled on as sleepy London faded and off licenses and terraced houses turned into industrial estates and factories. Something about the liminality of these places relaxed her. What could go wrong on a big concrete expanse? Even the work itself, mind numbingly painful for some, she found meditative. Her gentle hands would select the cardboard box, fold it neatly into the perfect shape and then send it back on its little path. The same hands that fed and clothed, scrubbed and ached, knit and weaved imparted a molecule of that care into every single box. She thought about the life-cycle of the box, how it would ultimately be ripped apart and tossed in the bathroom bin. Maybe some would find that disheartening, knowing that they were working on something that has little meaning. She didn't mind all that much. She realised that every day we are all working in our own factories only for things to all come to an end within a few years anyways. The joy that folding that box gave her was enough to warrant it's existence.
Her pondering of the philosophy of boxes came to a close as the bus slowed down toward its inevitable end. This bus terminates here. At this point the sun was ready to show its face, a moody orange glow sat across the concrete buildings surrounding her. Each blade of grass seemed to weep with dew, the sharp chill of damp embodying a sense of new life. She mentally thanked the bus and audibly thanked the driver. She stepped of the bus and turned right, carrying herself along the familiar path without a thought, comforted by the twists and turns that guided her to where she needed to be.
