Bus Ride

 A short short story from an unreliable narrator on a bus.

It's the mystery. Having only strangers sitting around me. Only I know my true destination. Only they know theirs. As the first people, two older ladies who have come back from the store with trolleys bungee corded in the wheelchair space, disembark. I want to see their homes. Not in a creeper-killer way. I'm curious to find out more without interaction way.

I don't get off the bus at my normal stop. Do you think the bus driver noticed? More people come on and off, and each time someone stands and staggerlee walks toward the front my legs tighten, I debate if I should get off.

Two hours into what should be a five-minute ride, a woman sits next to me. I push my legs together, and I'm self-conscious that my hips are spilling into her seat. She has on a lilac hat. She makes me want a lilac hat. She pushes the button. I thank her. I thank her? She makes me want to get off the bus. I lie, tell her this has always been my destination, that it is such a crazy coincidence. She laughs, and I laugh. Trying not to look her in the eye.

She tells me she's going to her friend's book club. That they are read Where the Crawdads Sing.  I lie, I tell her I just finished reading it. As we step off the bus, she invites me to join. And now I'm sitting in a stranger's living room, drinking a stranger's tea, and I accidentally pocked the ring that was left next to the faucet in the bathroom.