IT IS JULY SIXTEENTH AND THIS IS MY FOURTH ENTRY

When the bus doesn’t come I finish reading a story about a library filled with hexagonal chambers and books containing variations of twenty-five characters repeated endlessly on four hundred and ten pages forty lines deep. The bus doesn’t come and the man in front of me is wearing some kind of Kareem Abdul Jabbar jersey but it’s a regular fit and looks like it might be for soccer, which is strange. I find it interesting, but not too interesting. His girlfriend is wearing sunglasses and she looks at me with my backpack and heavy bag and she looks at me up and down like I am nothing and she won’t stop and I wonder why. I think, “I am not that bad”, and I just came from a place where the water is deep and cold and the waves can be seen from the window, as well as gulls, fireflies, and large contingents of turkey vultures. I think, “I am not that bad, really, and I’m just taking the bus, as are you” but eventually I become tired of having to think things and looking at a poor woman whose eyes don’t respond to my eyes because they are hidden behind expensive black glass.

I know my back is strong and I have been thinking about how strong I feel lately so I pull my arms through the backpack straps and pick up my heavy bag and walk out of the station, down the road. The whole time I think about how terrible the bus system is on Woodbine because I am forced to walk and how the bus would have been crowded anyway because there were sixty people on the platform waiting for the same bus, thirty of them children laughing and carrying on. I walk quickly, but at an even pace, I’m walking downhill and I’m right, the bus doesn’t pass me and I just beat it to my stop, a half-hour walk from the station, in the sun.

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