The usherette on the bus

September 12, 2010 § Leave a comment

Just someone you see on the bus.

It’s not early any more – the heaving mass of people has forced its way through the transport system and been spat out into offices and shops.

She’s standing near the front, where the pushchairs and wheelchairs  go, and she’s swaying back and forwards with every pothole as if keeping time with some music on her mp3 player. She looks like she got dressed in a hurry, grabbing her cinema uniform with the nametag still attached from the floor or perhaps a chair, no time to brush her hair so instead pulling it back into a ponytail. Splashing water on her face and barrelling out of the door towards an invisible day in the dark.

Behind her the sunshine shows up the grime on the bus windows and, beyond, the wasteground where those flats used to be, the ones whose fronts were boarded up with metal grilles and secured with graffiti.

She’s leaning against the window and she’s smiling as she looks out, past the other passengers, out of the window at the other side of the bus and towards the future. She’s got plans. The motivational speaker intoning mantras in her ears is just reinforcement of what she knows will one day be hers.


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