areiamus

Is there a more depressing sight in our world of ‘haves’, bounded in poverty by a trolley full of Home Brand, despair by missing the express train, and hardship by walking an extra block for coffee due to the length of the queue, than people waiting at a bus stop in the rain? Huddled against the elements in positions precisely calculated to maximise individually-acceptable ratios of personal-space-to-weather-exposure while minimising the possibility of eye contact, they stare out into the wet rush of traffic with a frightened attentiveness, at the bus that’s 7 minutes (plus obligatory lateness multiplied by probability of non-existence) away but could be right there and if you’re not watching you’ll miss it?

Unable to depend on each other to signal the bus down, they squint at the yellow-and-ads coloured shapes as they hiss by, each arrogantly displaying the wrong destination. When they finally recognise ‘their’ bus as it turns the bend, the matadors’ bodies tense in anticipation of the urgent (yet modest) flicks they’ll make to entice the driver to halt - some using a sodden newspaper, for others their pale hand, with a half-wave or as though they’ve a question to ask in class.