The morning after Jackie’s life dissolved in a whoosh of words and a slamming door, she missed the bus and waited fifteen minutes for the next one.
It bumbled, squealed and stopped. This driver didn’t smile in recognition, wish her a good morning. No smiles along the aisle, no nods, no “Hi, Jackie!” to make it better. She was a woman who’d lost her man, her plans for happily-ever-after.
She pulled out her e-reader but couldn’t concentrate. He’d taken her wedding gown, her anniversary parties, her children with him when he’d left. She looked around, guessing the life of strangers. It was better that she’d missed her regular bus–these people didn’t know, couldn’t tell that she was different now.
A woman sat across the aisle knitting some horrid orange thing. A young woman next to her was beaming down at a bundle she cradled in her arms. The man in front had serious dandruff that made her cringe. No one looked like they’d been broken into pieces. Everyone on the stinking bus had a better life than her.
She read, often re-reading to get the drift of story. People brushed by, got on, most got off. Her stop was next. When she put the reader away she saw the bundle left behind. It moved. She rushed and picked it up just as the bus swung around a corner and hissed to a stop. She smiled as she got off, suddenly feeling better.