Wolverhampton

Wolverhampton, UK - matt blackcustard - Thursday, December 12th, 2002 : goo

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the bus is always deathly quiet at this time of the morning, everyone cocooned in their own silent world, winding up for the day, stealing time for a moment or two of inner peace before the day lets loose.

it's dark, still, although it's already well past dawn, but the sun likely won't show today. even if it forced its way through the close cloud the bus's misty windows would prevent it from warming the weary passengers. those windows - damp with the residue of a dozen rushed cups of coffee, a handful of last minute cigarettes, and the lingering traces of a smattering of snatched goodbye kisses - shield us from the outside world, which hurtles past without our sleepy acknowledgement.

our world inside the bus is tightly knit, a dozen familiar faces safely separated by the unwritten rules of noncommunication. perhaps a nod here, a good morning there, an after you, a chilly today; but no more. break the rules once and you're obliged to break them forever, and then this daily stolen time of meditative preparation evaporates. so we're silent.

silent to think and watch and study.

effectively invisible, i studied her from behind, unsure whether i felt like an artist worshipping his muse or a forensic pathologist studying a specimen. i noted the shoddily cut hair, still damp from the shower, tied back high on the crown, and hanging lopsidedly. i studied the exposed neck, her pale, slightly scurvy skin, reddened by a reaction to the cheap silver coloured necklace. i took in the wispy corona of hair framing the unseen face, sprouting like whiskers. i committed to memory the shiny mole, the fine golden hairs at the nape and her tiny pink ears, pierced but free of jewellery.

could she feel me scrutinising her? i doubt it, there's no pressure in a gaze. still, i felt guilty, as if i was overstepping the mark, and invading her space. so i diverted my attention, wiped myself a window through the dirty condensation and spent the rest of my journey watching the blurry world rush past, and writing in my head.

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Peter: right on; viva text.

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