East Avenue

The air in the bus is thick, I can see my breath fogging against the window and I turn away to the book in my lap so I don't have to look at it. The guy next to me on the bus, we’re past Woodstock and Main and I’m waiting for him to get off. My hands are clutching Cat’s Cradle so tightly Kurt Vonnegut and Bokononism itself may fall out. He’s making me nervous, this stranger makes me want to vomit and I don’t even know him. There are too many imperfections, his face isn’t symmetrical, his nose slanted. I see him looking at me from the corner of my eye, I wonder what he's thinking about. My disgust isn't well hidden; perhaps he thinks it’s directed at my book. That doesn’t matter because he coughs then into his hand, and I catch sight of his fingers. I stand up and pull the yellow cord for the next stop. Five blocks too early, his fingers, stained with nicotine, have run me off. He pays no attention to me as I mutter a “thank you” to the driver that's hardly audible, and lean against the wall of the building as the roar of the bus grows distant. I feel as though I can finally breathe. Everyone is so ugly.