Just a stranger on the bus.
I make a connection from Crown Hill to Market Street in Ballard. For those of you who have never been, Market Street is a long avenue with a series of cozy, intimate shops running down it, located in a safe, artistic neighborhood. It's the sort of place where people introduce themselves to you in restaurants and coffeehouses even if you just walk past them. Today, I missed my bus by two minutes and had to wait half an hour for the next one. I didn't really mind; this way I got to go have a coffee, sit down, and people-watch.
There's always good people-watching in Seattle. Today, I sat next to a wino openly drinking beer at one in the afternoon (and breathing on me, which was the one damp spot), a punk-rockish bleach-blonde woman with Japanese tattoos on her arms, and a blue-haired woman in a fetishy Catholic schoolgirl outfit and Doc Martens. The cake, however, was taken by a young man I noticed reading the bus schedule.
He was average height, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, full to the brim. Peeking out of it was a DVD that looked like some sort of artsy horror movie or possibly a higher-class porn film: it was called Diabolita 13, I think. He was dressed all in dressy-casual black, with a black velvet jacket topping it off, and a red silk tie over a black shirt. His hair was dark and gelled into mussy spikes, and he was wearing dark sunglasses.
He sighed in irritation at the schedule and loitered around, walking a lazy loop around the bus shelters and smoking a cigarette, watching each bus that pulled up and appearing to be waiting for someone. I considered going up to him, but I really wouldn't have known what to say. The only thing that was running through my head was "Oh my God, I share a bus stop with Crowley, oh my God!"
My bus arrived a few minutes later and I boarded with a huge idiotic grin on my face, noticing as we drove off that he'd taken off his sunglasses and was rubbing his face. Pity his eyes were covered.
There's always good people-watching in Seattle. Today, I sat next to a wino openly drinking beer at one in the afternoon (and breathing on me, which was the one damp spot), a punk-rockish bleach-blonde woman with Japanese tattoos on her arms, and a blue-haired woman in a fetishy Catholic schoolgirl outfit and Doc Martens. The cake, however, was taken by a young man I noticed reading the bus schedule.
He was average height, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, full to the brim. Peeking out of it was a DVD that looked like some sort of artsy horror movie or possibly a higher-class porn film: it was called Diabolita 13, I think. He was dressed all in dressy-casual black, with a black velvet jacket topping it off, and a red silk tie over a black shirt. His hair was dark and gelled into mussy spikes, and he was wearing dark sunglasses.
He sighed in irritation at the schedule and loitered around, walking a lazy loop around the bus shelters and smoking a cigarette, watching each bus that pulled up and appearing to be waiting for someone. I considered going up to him, but I really wouldn't have known what to say. The only thing that was running through my head was "Oh my God, I share a bus stop with Crowley, oh my God!"
My bus arrived a few minutes later and I boarded with a huge idiotic grin on my face, noticing as we drove off that he'd taken off his sunglasses and was rubbing his face. Pity his eyes were covered.