BUS, BUS...MAGIC BUS

Did some scribbling this morning. The beginning of an Everlasting chapter, perhaps on the way to the end of things with Ashley. No more than a quick draft right now, presented with typos and all:

Lance could smell the man long after he passed. Perhaps it was the contact, it had left his scent behind—a stale odor, with a dash of cigarettes and what was most likely beer. He had seen the man get on the bus. He was tall and skinny, black, with an Oakland As jersey on. He held his bus transfer impossibly high, making it a grand gesture to show that he was on the vehicle legally.

The man stumbled towards the back of the bus, using the railings along the way, pitching and shifting from one side, one rail, to the other. As he passed Lance—who was sitting by himself in a two-seat aisle, listening to Bookends on headphones—he was between rails. His hand darted from one pole to another, the knuckles on his impossibly long fingers slapping Lance in his right cheek as they passed. The man staggered along, not even aware he had made contact with another person. By the time that Lance could decide whether it would be worth his while or not to protest, it was too late. Mr. Oakland As had settled in the seat all the way to the back.

But his smell stayed. Lance could also still feel the impression of the fingers on his cheek. The presence lingered. Was it the physical contact that connected the stink to him, or did the whole bus smell like this now?

Current Soundtrack: Various Artists, Hope

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