Slice of Life

The bus station is empty, three hours to wait. The girl behind the counter, long black hair hanging in ringlets, stares lazily as we approach. "May I help you?" The homeless man wanders in slowly, takes a seat on the opposite side of the room, facing the wall- escapes through sleep. Hours pass; would be travelers trickle in. An addicted people-watcher, I observe, intrigued. A young couple; hands joined, hug, touch, smile. The girl constantly moves, poses, her curves displayed by form-fitting fashion. A tall man; work roughened hands, weathered cowboy boots, one tote bag, and a look of determined purpose. A tiny black woman holds herself erect, steps briskly. Hand-knitted hat covers gray hair. Spike heels augment her height and full-length red coat. A young white man; two silver rings in his eyebrow, wearing a black leather jacket, faded [slightly dirty]jeans and flip-flops asks, Who won? and laments that he is too young to vote. A woman of indeterminate age; orange bleached hair, clothes bedecked with glitter, talks in a loud, rough voice. Does her manner mask a vulnerable heart? As departure time approaches; the ticket line grows long, the empty metal benches fill, groups stand near the door- luggage piled at their feet. I watch, knowing that I will not pass this way again, and muse: There's a life story for each one, a book which may never be written.