And as the gear shifter is jerked into place we roll on, sitting here in a trance- like state. The man beside me coughs, as once more he gets up to close the bus door. Why did he do it again? Why did he take this job upon himself? Knowing it would only aggravate him, having to re- close it repetitively or sit in the chilling draft constantly.
But maybe that is not what he knows. Rather, what I know. Though not what I feel.
The bus comes to a halt once more and once more the man shall rise to close the door.
The waiting game...
It's cold now, more than drafty. Refreshing for a short time, but it passes along with the kilometers.
NO.
This time the man asks the money collector to close the door. He has still done his job.
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