THE CITY BUS
The double decker bus doors slid open, and she stepped aboard, fumbling with her Oyster Card. She carried her sign under her arm, that she'd been using all day to convince passersby that they were walking through danger with their heads in the clouds. The driver gave her a nasty look as she passed. But she was used to that.
There were few empty seats, so she decided to stand at the front on the lower deck. She surveyed the riders, letting her eyes scan over the diverse London faces. The folks in front shifted away from her slightly, but enough for her to notice. It was ok; she was used to it.
One girl's Asian face in particular caught her eye, and she asked where she was from. The girl's cold, quick, brief responses indicated that she was nervous and put off by the conversation. Well, no matter.
She cleared her throat and raised her sign. Again, for the hundredth time that day, she began her appeal to the people's higher reasoning. She poured every ounce of empathy, compassion, and care that she possessed into her words. But the people did as they always did - averted their eyes, shuffled their feet, spoke in hushed tones and pretended she wasn't there.
The pain of their dismissal flattened her will. "You all probably think I'm crazy," she uttered, silently hoping, inviting anyone to disagree and reassure her. But they were all silent. As always.
"I may look rough, but I'm alright." Her attempt to convince the people. "I'm alright," she repeated, to convince herself.