The bus slowed near the corner, the usual squeal of the brakes echoing off the tunnel wall. I shifted slightly, feeling the slight settling of the vinyl cushion beneath me. Lying folded on the seat, slightly askew, was the transfer ticket. It was the third time I had seen it this week, and the fourth time today. I watched the crease lines, noting the faint yellowing of the paper and the scuff marks on the surrounding vinyl. The ticket always bore the date: October 14th. It did not matter what day the bus was actually running, or how many hours had passed since I last saw it. A faint, metallic scent, like ozone mixed with old dust, drifted up from the seat cushion. I kept my gaze fixed on the window ledge, pretending to study the dust layer, while the ticket remained perfectly in place.
static · uneasy