The vinyl seat cushion is scuffed down to a dull, matte gray, marked by years of elbows and knees. In the corner, where the seat meets the vertical grab bar, rests a transfer ticket. It is folded precisely into the same corner every time, the crease a sharp, dark line against the faded blue paper. I do not know how it gets there, only that it is always there when the bus slows to a stop. A faint, oily residue stains the vinyl beneath the ticket, a slick patch that catches the mid-morning sunlight. Dust motes drift through the window, settling slowly onto the surface of the paper, accumulating in the sharp fold. I reach down, my fingers brushing the grit, and slide the ticket into my pocket without looking at the date or the faded ink.
static · uneasy