Skip to content

Bus Muse

March 25, 2012

Haven’t written any fiction for the blog in a while. It’s fiction, but it happened. But it’s fiction:

The bathroom stop. There is this beautiful cream coloured Asian woman sitting outside of the bus. Plain black top, short tan shorts, a stylish angular hair cut, she is sitting on her suitcase bent over a sketchbook. The sudden breeze that plays in her hair exemplified her charm. Very picture-esque from the window that I’m staring from, from inside the Greyhound, the panels frame her nicely. She is absorbed in her drawing and it’s tricky to tell if she is attractive or not. No it’s not. She is. She herself, I gathered, isn’t what appeals to me but her body language. Her head crooked as she approaches the drawing, her busy hands, her buckled knees and parted feet, left, right , left tapping the pavement occasionally. And the wind just passes through her, she doesn’t notice or deviate from her position. The wind returns stronger in the opposite direction. She does not yield.

Finishing up the last of my tea, I get a mouthful of sugar water, all the sweetness settled to the bottom. The grit is unpleasant between teeth.

I glance once more at the girl and her drawing book. She can’t be more than twenty-five. If that. Her only accessory is an embroidered hemp bracelet around her wrist. Then without warning, she looks up at me. Not to scold me about staring. She needs me, or a piece of me for her sketch. Her eyes are fixed on me for a while, I begin to think she’s staring at someone else but the bus is practically empty. Everyone else waits inside, lined up to use the washroom. She continues drawing, looking up occasionally. I’ve become a reference. I can’t let her see that I’m honoured, so I tilt my head away and rest my hand under my chin. If it’s my face she wants, she can’t see it. I notice her stop. Yes, she’ll have to work for this one, wait until she gets that angle again. She gazes patiently lowering her eyes to the ground. I try to stretch my arms and yawn as naturally as I can, teasing her with a flash of my features and then vigorously rubbing my face with my hands. Peek-a-boo.

Shortly after I turn to her again, making sure she doesn’t lose interest in her muse. Her hands don’t look excited, they are slow, almost anxious that I’ll be out of sight again. I stare at the bus sign above her to look distracted but by this time she’s stopped all together, gathered up all her pencils and closed her book. She mounts the bus and sits right beside me. I’m paralyzed.

Advertisements
5 Comments leave one →
  1. Leona permalink
    March 26, 2012 12:07 am

    Oh, I like.

    • March 26, 2012 12:12 am

      I’m glad you like, Leona. Care to elaborate? Thanks for reading

      • Leona permalink
        March 27, 2012 4:58 pm

        I think it’s the way you capture the minute gestures and facial movements between two people in sentences that aren’t mashed together. They are constructed simply, but they don’t slow down the speed of the interaction.

        That, and the last sentence sums up perfectly how someone feels when a person is very close to a stranger they’ve been eyeing, haha.

Trackbacks

  1. Back to the Fiction! « Writing in a Tree
  2. Happy Blog-iversary: Year Two! « Writing in a Tree

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: