Whiplash

I looked uncertainly around the bus, fully convinced I’d not find a seat. Our buses were all designed roughly the same: there’d be around 3 seats reserved for handicapped at the very front that lifted for wheelchairs, then 3-4 rows of front-facing seats. Over the wheels, a row of around 4 seats would face inward, then 2 where the bus had a bend in the middle. The back door followed there, surrounded by another set of front-facing seats. Finally, the back had a U-shaped set of seats that had been raised over the bus’s engine.

I liked to read or write on the bus, and tended to prefer the front-facing seats. That day, there weren’t many seats left. I had to select from the middle seats that faced inward toward the aisle, sitting next to a man who smiled at me and nodded when I apologized for accidentally nudging him with my backpack strap. He rose, offering his seat up to an elderly woman carrying a small bag of groceries.

The bus filled, and we pulled away for the longest ride I’d experienced.