I take the bus to work every day, and it is a bleak business. I try to look beyond the date and time scrolling above the driver’s head, the windows slick with fingerprints, the defeated light struggling through the doorway, the warnings scattered along the rubber aisle: caution, wait, back door, watch your step.
So my attention wanders.
The other day, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cord above the insufferable windows bouncing. It jumped nervously, as if it was gripped by a small, skittish personality fearful of its balance. I felt sure that some creature, fallen from the trees, was chasing its stability, and trying to steady itself on the narrow, elusive line.
But then I saw the irritable fingers pulling at the silent cord, the muffled woman rising to her feet. I sympathized with her distant job, the uncomfortable commute, the cold morning as she stood by the exit.
Yet for a brief second I was sure that there was a squirrel in the bus.