A bus ride past the rain-swept meadows, the swaying bristlegrass lamenting in great drops of sky-blue hues. Still, it is not the view that attracts me.
Across from me sits a young girl. Not unattractive; honeycomb hair, eyes the colour of the fields outside the dawdling bus. She had drawn her grey hood almost over her lush head, creating a half-ended veil of mourning. For in contrast of her sparkling appearance, she was in a somber mood. A Plutonian grimace has spread over her countenance, eyelids obscuring the sapphire beauty underneath. She softly reclined her head against the smudged plastic divider halfway the bus’ interior.
I wonder, what was the cause of her misery? Perhaps her greatest love, her knight in shining armor had turned out to be somewhat different under all the coruscating plating of a gallant heart. Perchance (such an old-fashioned word, no?) a falling out with siblings, parents. A heated argument about independence, about the wild and carefree spirit of a prodigal daughter.
Music was streaming into her being via the also quite grey earplugs, fitting elegantly in her aquiline and well-formed ears. She had now closed her eyes completely.
Once again, I had to wonder. What was she listening to? Perhaps she was drifting on the slow guitars of Crowded House, lost in the lyrics of Pour Le Monde.
Across from me sits a young girl. Not unattractive; honeycomb hair, eyes the colour of the fields outside the dawdling bus. She had drawn her grey hood almost over her lush head, creating a half-ended veil of mourning. For in contrast of her sparkling appearance, she was in a somber mood. A Plutonian grimace has spread over her countenance, eyelids obscuring the sapphire beauty underneath. She softly reclined her head against the smudged plastic divider halfway the bus’ interior.
I wonder, what was the cause of her misery? Perhaps her greatest love, her knight in shining armor had turned out to be somewhat different under all the coruscating plating of a gallant heart. Perchance (such an old-fashioned word, no?) a falling out with siblings, parents. A heated argument about independence, about the wild and carefree spirit of a prodigal daughter.
Music was streaming into her being via the also quite grey earplugs, fitting elegantly in her aquiline and well-formed ears. She had now closed her eyes completely.
Once again, I had to wonder. What was she listening to? Perhaps she was drifting on the slow guitars of Crowded House, lost in the lyrics of Pour Le Monde.
Pour le monde, pas pour la guerre
And I wake up blind
Like my dreams were too bright
And I lost my regard
For the good things that I had
And the radio was sad
Maybe she’s a Tori Amos fan, softly swaying (of course an unbetrayed movement) to the dark yet bright tones of Almost Rosey.
Just why do they say
Maybe she’s a Tori Amos fan, softly swaying (of course an unbetrayed movement) to the dark yet bright tones of Almost Rosey.
Just why do they say
Have a nice day anyway?
We both know they wouldn't mind
If I just curled up and died
But the real question should perhaps be: should I have gone to her? Should I have extended a shoulder, a confessional box of deceptive comfort? Maybe she would have shrugged away, fearful and mistrusting, deeper into her own sad reverie. Then again, maybe she would have accepted. I guess I’ll never find out, certainly not at the moment I descended from the bus and our eyes quickly met. Right then and there, I lost not only my footstep, but also the nerve. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.
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