Carmella Gumaelius

Bus stops were not something I encountered frequently for the first nineteen years of my life. They seemed nothing extraordinary to me, those little huts of glass and metal, frequently empty and suspiciously fragrant. Now I feel myself to be a veteran of public transport, delighting in the oddities that occur in those spaces which are constantly populated by people coming and going, but never quite staying. I am enchanted by the woman counting on long lackered nails, checking once and again which stop is next, though she rides the bus every Thursday. Then there is the man who sat beside me after dancing in from the rain, his long beard dripping, eyes flashing as he whispered about the perfect world, the phoenix, and the coming of something. Through his half heard muttering I watched him transform into a prophet, bearing the curse of Cassandra. I can’t quite bring myself to watch as the objects of my small stories leave the bus, entering the space wherein the little fantasies I have created will become obsolete. The prophet is no longer so mystical, but a bit scary as he stumbles away down the street, trailing a wagon of tarp and rags. I never see her leave, so I draw the woman with her red red nails becoming a crow, flying from her bus stop to next Thursday, where she will surely sit in the middle seat and count the streets until she can fly away again.