Copyright 2000 e. blakemore.
(something old) · (next leg)
I take the wrong bus
I pay too much money to board it. It starts out slowly, moving up an extremely steep hill, past an old building that looks like it could be a state capitol. The streets are cobbled.
There are steps by the side of the road that look like a horror to climb. Even riding on a bus, the climb is terrifying. All the walls feel too close to the road. Like driving through a maze of foxholes.
At last we reach the seashore road. We managed to reach the seashore by moving constantly uphill, without ever going downhill at any time in our transit.
I am sitting next to a boy I once knew at school. A slender, priggish boy — he is terribly earnest. With his penknife, he diligently scrapes the wax from his apples before he eats them. He would be my type if only he weren’t so nervous.
Now, riding together in the bus, we go over to the wrong side of the bay. Sometimes, it is as though we have traversed the water. There are tin boats floating there below us. We seem to be suspended in midair.