Route 1429
(c) 2002 alison.

Rush hour. At 11:30 at night? Quentin frowns as he scans the bus for a vacant spot. Never, in his three year period of taking the 1429 bus from stop 60 to 137, had every seat been occupied on a late Wednesday night.

Disasterous, until, alas! An empty seat. The last one. The back seat, middle, next to the sleeping woman and the two gay guys kissing. Quentin dismisses all thought as to why the bus was full as he quickly makes his way down to claim the spot. The three people behind him, hiding their disappointment, reluctantly grab at the material handles, wishing they stood in line quicker, wishing they pre-purchased a ticket, wishing they caught an earlier bus.

The driver shuts the doors and accellerates quickly to get back into the heavy traffic; his mind relaying images of the newborn granddaughter sleeping in an incubator from last night. Feeling every single burning second trickle over him, he rapidly taps the steering wheel to give the illusion that time is passing quickly. He can't wait until his shift ends, the same way Quentin felt twenty minutes ago.

A sea of heads motion back from the sudden force, desperate to arrive at their destination, Quentin falls into the seat. He feels a jabbing in his buttocks and remembers the Federal law of seatbelt requirements on buses. His, the very front, and driver seats became fitted with belts after a school bus crashed a year ago; not wearing them is punishable by law. Feeling for the clip, Quentin buckles up like a good citizen.

Two local radio station DJs argue softly through the speakers above, ignored by many. Quentin doesn't notice until the batteries die to his personal player. Music, once playing in his ears, cease. He curses softly at what was lacking, tapping the player to obtain the last amount of juice left. Realising the end, he pulls the earphones out and dumps the electrontic machine in his bag, wondering when the radio will play a song, any song to distract the long journey. Waiting, he looks about him.

She wasn't sleeping. Reading, rather. Intently. Her knees leaning against the seat infront's backing, the book resting above her lap, she was motionless except for the flicker of the eyes scanning the page from left to right, left to right.

For lack of anything better to do, Quentin watches her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for more signs of life when she turned the page, wondering how she could see with the dim, flickering fluorescent lighting that buzzed overhead. With a single flick, over in the blink of an eye, the page turns, her eyes still scanning, her mouth twitching at the joke only her and the book get.

Interest sparked, he cranes his head to get in on the action.

"What are you reading?" he asks, politeness on his face and voice, typical behaviour for people unknown.

Without word, without sound, the woman slightly tilts the cover of the book, her eyes encased between the confines of the page, twitching left to right, line to line.

I, Claudius. Familiar, but completely unknown to Quentin. "Ah. Is it interesting?"

She reads, not responding, causing Quentin to ponder whether she heard him above the rattling windows, the gear shifts, the rumbling engine. Should he ask again? Should he take it as a sign not to bother? Should he be embarassed, cut, even more interested that she ignored him?

"Just because," she replies, her voice soft, sweet, her eyes still on the page, her concentration unwavered, "You're bored enough to start up a conversation with a complete stranger, doesn't mean that I, the complete stranger, am bored enough to talk back."

Quentin watches and listens to the words of wisdom, surprised at the less-conventional form of reply. The woman continues to read as he glances at the nearby travellers: the gay couple kissing to his right, both wishing the next stop was theirs; the teenage mother with child sleeping in her arms and small boy beside her, wondering whether, after two years, her mother will take her back and accept her chosen life; the aged man glancing between the mother and the men, unsure of which shocks him more; the old woman, remembering the lover of her youth who, for her family's repuation sake, she was forced to give up.

Did anyone notice? Is there anyone to offer him sympathy at the woman's remark?

Cold, distant, Quentin renews his interest in the dead batteries, realising why people don't talk on public transport.

"Are you offended," the woman begins, for the first time, looking at Quentin, her eyes studying his, her finger holding a paragraph so as to not lose it, "Because my reply was so blatantly put, or because you never thought about it before?"

The upper hand returned and willing to exploit it, he looks back, the polite face gone. "I was just making conversation."

She smiles, amused at his reply, her face goulish against the lights. "As was I."

The driver brakes suddenly as he sees a group of people hailing from a routed stop. The sea of heads jerk forward then back at the sudden motion, Quentin grateful for the seatbelt that kept him in the chair instead of sprawled in the aisle.

The mother sighs as the babe starts crying, abruptly woken from its slumber; the passengers turn to look, also sighing and rolling their eyes. The trip will be long.

Quentin, joining the crowd, doesn't notice the woman getting up to leave. She does not ask for him to let her out, does not wait. Only until she's atop of him, does he realise. Surprised, Quentin watches her straddle him, touch him, weigh him down. He shivers uncontrollably, confused at his reaction. She merely glances at him: the only acknowledgement of his presence. No smile, no frown, no indication of sneaky flirtation. Just an object, a hurdle, obstructing her path to the door.

He opens his mouth, but shuts it, unsure of what to say, of what just happened. Instead, Quentin watches. Watches her weave between the standing passenger, watches her walk down the bus steps, watches her pause, looking from left to right at the location. A new traveller wants the vacant seat, so Quentin undoes the seatbelt and shuffles over to the woman's, watching her through the back window.

Oblivious, she lights a cigarette, the spark and glow of the flame illuminating her face against the darkened night. She takes a drag as Quentin inhales, exhales as he holds his breath. The bus accelerates, black smoke mixing with the woman's white, and she turns, walking. Pressure building, Quentin remembers to breathe, watching as the figure disappears into total darkness, wondering: who was she? But, more importantly, will he ever see her again?