The rain tickles the windows as the wipers lazily smear the droplets away. His gaze seems lost. Nothing on that bus captured his attention. The bus stops.
One, two, three, four people enter. It's the typical four o'clock traffic, and, as usual, the bus is crowded.
He's still lost. He doesn't look at anybody, and nobody looks at him. He barely took a glance out the window in front of him when something finally caught his attention. The seat in front of him was now occupied. Face to face, he saw someone who was barely twenty, a lost soul, just like him. Such youth, such beauty.
He searched through his backpack. Pencil, where was that pencil? There it is. Now, where's that sketchbook? From the backpack he took a black leather bound sketchbook.
He skimmed through its pages. Fruits, chairs, statues, self-portrait: all done by pencil, all done by him; no longer done. When he turned the page with the fruit basket on front, he started to draw. Thin lines marking the face, strong lines for eyes. No, there's something wrong.
Such creature deserves a new page. He turned another page, then another, and then another. He started to draw again on a page completely blank, completely fresh. Thin lines marking the face, strong lines for eyes. There had to be luscious lips. But, what about the gaze? The strong lines were not enough. What was missing? He put his head on his hands and closed his eyes tightly. Nothing came to mind. Once he opened his eyes he looked directly at something blue.
Yes, he remembered. She had giving it to him on lunch break: her scrunchy. It still carried her scent and it almost seemed like if it had become part of his wrist. A smile made way in his face. What was he doing before? Oh, yes, the gaze.
His hand moved towards the drawing again. Curly charcoal hair, rounded nose, bushy eyebrows. He looked again to the front.
A single tear formed a stream down the person's cheek. Not lost soul, or old, it's a sad soul.
How many bus stops have passed? Three? Four? Maybe more? The bus certainly looked emptier. He kept looking. What was the person thinking? Why was the person so sad? Why was he so interested? He stared at the drawing. The tear, the tear was missing. He sketched the tear anxiously; it was the missing element.
Another stop. The guy singing out loud had left, and so did the two bickering kids. The person pressed the yellow line. No, he hadn't finished the sketch. Maybe he has.
The bus stopped again. He looked around nervously. The sad soul walked towards the door, but more people came in. The door in the back opened and the person made for it. He rose from his feet, and followed.
"Wait", he stammered. The person stopped walking. ""I haven't drawn in a while." The person looked suspiciously. "Today I did." He opened the sketchbook and ripped out his recent drawing. "Why is there a tear?" "You were crying." "No, I wasn't." "Your soul was." He handed the sketch and left.