... the bus begins to lurch forward, the click, click, click of the indicator becomes hypnotic as I sit watching the thin red lines of the tailghts on passing cars go by.
The drunk is still watching me. There's a thin drop of dribble abseiling down his unshaven chin, snagging and splitting ino little dribbles as it catches on the coarse stubble. His eye rolls round to meet my gaze as I try to avoid his. It's strange how people can become fixated on one and other when they see something that is interesting them. Maybe it's my scarf? Maybe my hat? I don't know, perhaps seeing me all wrapped up in my woollen garments is making him feel cold in his thin, ragged little anorak and fairisle jumper. perhaps somewhere in that mind of his there's a little cognitive process whereby he feels staring at me will make him warmer...a sort of vicarious warmth. i wouldn't bother if I were you love, I'm bloody freezing as it is!
Looking through the window I can see the figures still walking down the streets. Girls in thin, tiny clothes that show their mottled legs dragging down the cold streets, hair flying back like whips in the cruel wind, followed by a group of men, swaying and silently shouting in the night.
The drunk on the bus is leaning, head against the window and eyes closed. The bus jolts to a stop sending his head forward sharply, his eyes nap open and there's a greasy stain left on the window. His eyes, fall to the floor and he takes another swig of his can. the bus begins to slow, brakes letting out a high, haunting whine as it stops to let on the waiting people.