Bus Stop

Hissing hydraulic arrival. Archer bounced out of the van and approached his yellow transport with glee—a giant backpack being walked by too-short skinny jeans and scuffed blue sneakers—while I opened my visor to look at my face in the truth of morning sun. I did that thing all women do and tried to remove ten years by pulling my cheeks back to tighten things up. I pressed on my puffy under eyes, double checked for chin hairs, and measured how much my hair has grown since coloring it a year ago. It was only ten seconds of inspection but long enough to feel like a hag with giant pores and saggy jowls. Feeling a little bitter toward my natural beauty, I snapped the visor back up just as the bus was pulling away and saw, from his assigned seat on the 4th row, a little heart made from two tiny hands. Seeking through the glare I found Archer’s happy fermata eyes as he pressed his hand heart high against his window. I quickly smooshed a hand heart against the windshield back to him and secured a thumbs up as he shrunk out of sight.

I almost missed it. I almost missed the bus.

It made me wonder what else have I missed being negative, vain, and myopic.