Parade - The Bus Will Come by Alicia

The Bus Will Come

There is difficulty in maintaining the contents of a mug when it is not built for travel.

Here I am, awash in rain.

Amelia flexes her wrist softly in a circular motion, watching as the opaque brown stuff sloshes gently from side to side in her rapidly cooling mug – it meekly suggests CPS Current Population Survey on its curved face in a thin, grey, bending typeface. A little pale sunlight Toyota hurtles past, jostling the little party of water molecules and city street pollution into frenzy. She takes the chance to look down the busy road, looking for the merest sign of the tall blocky bus shape. There is none, yet.

Leather boots are not an adept demonstration of practicality when it is raining buckets of goldfish.

She totters in the short heels, wriggling her feet in a rather unpleasantly squelchy fashion as she shudders at the sensation of moisture seeping into her toes. Bus, bus, bus, bus where are you? A large droplet of rain has gathered its nearest comrades and has tumbled into her mug. Amelia’s eyebrows wrinkle in a small resigned annoyance as she watches it disperse into homogenousness with habile chemical ability. A figure steps into her peripheral vision, dressed in the mutually-accepted-by-society colours of black, brown, and black.

Amelia decides to swirl the tea again because she can see a small particle of rainwater which has not dissolved into the rest of the watery stuff – she’s not even sure it’s concentrated teabag enough to be called tea anymore.

An umbrella is essential when you see a swivel of cloud dusting the skies.

Rain on me. My jacket can handle it.

Of course, no one thinks to take an umbrella when they work in a petite little bookstore on the corner of Cleveland and Crown; that little plastic bin full of fold up and stick brollies is only for the lovely patrons who flutter in, bringing with them their own smells – coffee, cigarettes, cars, cardboard or even carcinogenic carbon. Amelia is that girl who sits behind the counter at Oscar’s reading a book about physics one day, and hearing the echoing sentiment of ‘old boy’ the next.

Never let tea cool if you intend on drinking it.

Bah! She swallows it gingerly.

That figure from before, on the edge of her peripheral vision, walks over with a smile – at least she imagines it to be a smile behind the darkness that is the hair and the hoodie and the everything dazzling about this newcomer.

Dazzlingly brilliant and as fresh as spring rain – until their hand raises and plops five sugar cubes rather arrogantly into her mug. This contumely from a no doubt self-named tea-genius has offended her. Amelia sniffs discordantly and steps away, the sly letters CPS turning to face the glass barrier of the bus stop instead of the stranger.

The bus will come, but do not expect it to come on time.

The stranger seems oddly put out – their shoulders have slumped. Amelia cannot find it in her tea-loving heart to feel any sympathy for someone who has just ruined her tea.

And yet, in that moment, as her eyes focus away from her thoughts to the distant horizon of the street, she sees that chunky block that is definitely a bus.

The right bus.

She throws her arm out into the gunfire, an imbalance of cold and warm singing as bullets of rain repeatedly strike her bare wrist and open palm. Her shadow stranger does the same. The bus huffily comes to a halt, the base of its steps teetering precariously towards the kerb.

There is a moment where it is just the sound of her cold breath mingling with the sighing of the engine, a romantic backdrop of rain pattering away on the roof of the bus shelter and the bus itself – and then the doors clatter open with some exasperated sounding pumps.

Board the bus, you little peasant.

Mind the gap.

Amelia minds the gap very much. The other steps forth unhesitatingly, jumping over the gutter and into the damp metal shell of the bus. Their steady sneakers beckon. She hastens to do the same, even as she watches with a sinking heart, the deepened wound of her severely diluted tea.

Finally, frisson, when the confined space of the pass traps you.

She sidles over, CPS raised high above her breast at a safe distance from the ground. Amelia does well in dipping her pass, and she listens in pleasure to the chirping duet of the two machines in synchrony with one another – the other has dipped too.

Only then does she remember the predicament of the pass.

A bat-like object comes into contact with her shoulder, continuing forward with the velocity of an accidental steam engine. Amelia can hear the apology on the other person’s lips, but she can only hear her own silent profanity as the foldable black umbrella comes to a shuddering halt right above her mug.

And releases a torrential downpour of sulfurous and haloalkane infested liquid.

Amelia turns instinctively towards the other person, only to glance at the Funny Girl poster behind them, absorbing the long brown locks tucked away in the abyss of a green hoodie. The other woman looks at the poster too, and is amused at an untold joke, understands an untold story, foresees an unforetold future. 

But all Amelia cares about right now is saying this:

No you seriously cannot rain on my parade.

~OvO~

Author's Note: Woah 912 words. I got a lot carried away. Wrote for about 45-50 min. It doesn't relate to belonging - it's a story about Amelia who is a girl waiting for a bus in the rain, remembering some advice, and meeting a lovely young stranger who just happens to annoy her a lot. I'm really sleepy, so most of this is really badly paced and everything. I might fix it later, I just felt so guilty because we have class today and I don't have anything complete to give in. :( 

Also, Funny Girl is the original musical that the song "Don't Rain On My Parade" is from. I didn't know how to end it and use the quote from the stimulus, so I did that. 

Hope everyone else updates soon! :)