SHUTTLE BUS
You check the rear view mirrors twice then put on left turn signal and head out of the parking lot. It is 7:10 and you are right on time. The day is already warming up so you open the window. The radio is playing an annoying song your adolescent son listens to countless times in his room, so you turn it off.
You note that the windshield you washed yesterday is still a bit cloudy. You think you should change products or use newspapers instead of rags. But you like the smell of this cleaner. It smells fresh, almost like new upholstery. Something your mother might use.
You ache for a cigarette but see that last pack of Winston’s on the dashboard, symbol of your decision not to smoke anymore. It has been seven months, or is it eight? Sometimes you wonder if it would be easier to just start again. That first inhale, especially in the morning, was always so relaxing, so liberating. But then again, you do feel lighter now. And the savings have meant some nice perks, like the new shoes on your feet. And the black Nikes you bought for your son last Saturday when it was your weekend.
You catch sight of two young attractive women waiting for the public bus. One, a tall brunette, really resembles that teacher you once fancied. You feel a pang in your heart area. You miss hearing her voice in the late afternoon, flirting innocently on your cell. You wonder where she is now. Does she think of you too?
Just then your phone pings. You glance, trying not to take your eyes off the road because you are entering a round about, the one where there are often police controls. It’s a mother letting you know her son will not be on the bus this morning.
She is always late, to inform you, to pick him up, to bring him in the morning…one of those pretentious private school parents who somehow had children but really do not care about them. The son has big brown eyes and often a sad expression. You have never seen the father. Maybe she is raising him alone? You sigh.
Why did your wife decide to leave? Life was so much easier back then, when bowl of soup was waiting for you in the evening and your washed and ironed light blue uniform shirts were folded neatly in your drawer. Now you hand wash them last minute and hope the wrinkles don’t show. They don’t smell as fresh either, even if you have changed washing powders several times.
The first stop is still five minutes away. The road is quite empty, just a few trucks, so the driving is easy, your bus empty and quiet. This is your favorite moment of the day. Better than the end of day when you drop off the last kids. Then you have to clean the seats of wrappers, check for forgotten books, hats or bags and pass the vacuum.
Red light. You always get this one red. The long one. But you are perfectly on time. You glance at yourself in the mirror and make sure there is no trace of the morning croissant in your teeth. It seems you did a decent job shaving. You think you look tired. Maybe you need to limit your late night evenings. Less alcohol. When will you learn to take care of yourself? Find a serious longterm relationship?
Will the woman you met last night answer your sms? You doubt it. You must have lost your touch. You may forever have to fall asleep, alone next to your cat.
You start up again as the light changes and you head into the neighbourhood where the first group of kids will be waiting for you.
There they are. Hmm, there is a blond mother you have never met waiting with her daughter. You smile in anticipation. Will you ever learn?
