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! :)
