A young woman in her early 30’s walked to the bus stop a block away from her house and waited there with a chilled bottle of Mexican soda pop in her hand. The bus finally arrived. But when it did, it came to a squeaking halt about a dozen feet past where she was standing. It was unbeknownst to her where it would stop, but the other patrons seemed to have known exactly where — to the inch. As she hustled to the quickly formed line, she recalled many of the same faces that first appeared to be passersby’s, now stepping on the bus waving money and transit cards and grocery bags in their hands. It was as if they were all a part of some conspiracy of people who knew the bus’ exact stop location points (that was of course way off from the marked spot on the street).
The, now annoyed young woman, walked on the bus with a half-full lukewarm soda bottle in her hand. She spotted an elder sitting with an empty seat next to her and quickly sat down, gently settling her soft ass into it before the bus took off. Noticing the heavy aqua blue leather jacket of the old woman next to her, she debated in her head why anyone would wear such a thing on such a balmy day: maybe she was cold, crazy, smart to bring an extra layer for the fickle microclimates of San Francisco. Either way, it wasn’t any of her business.
But then her eyes landed on the old woman’s hair that was salt and pepper and thinning a bit on the crown of her head. There was loveliness to each strand that swooped and smoothed its way into an aesthetically pleasing French bun. She wondered when and if she [the young annoyed woman with soda pop in her hand] would begin to lose her hair. For her mother had a great head of hair and her grandmother alike. And in the midst of her thoughts, the old woman cocked her head and stared at the young lady in a somewhat scorning gaze — somehow completely aware of what the young woman was quietly thinking to herself.