Beneath the Surface

Jhon sighed, a puff of air that felt as heavy as a lead balloon, and yanked on the car door. It, predictably, refused to budge, clinging to its stubborn, uncooperative silence like a limpet to a rock. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he muttered, giving it a half-hearted kick that did absolutely nothing except make his foot ache. His trusty, or rather, untrusty, sedan had decided this particular Tuesday was the perfect day to join the ranks of the permanently stationary. With a groan, Jhon slammed the door shut, the sound echoing the desolation in his soul. Another day, another glorious opportunity to be utterly, magnificently late.

The bus stop was, as usual, a symphony of honking horns and hurried footsteps. Jhon shuffled towards the curb, feeling like a particularly damp dishcloth. He squinted at the approaching bus, a lumbering, boxy behemoth that seemed to sigh with every stop. It was, he supposed, better than walking. Much, much better than walking in his slightly-too-tight work trousers.

He fumbled for his bus pass, his fingers still a little numb from the car door incident, and stepped onto the bus. The familiar scent of stale air freshener and something vaguely resembling old socks hit him, a smell that was as much a part of his commute as the rumble of the engine. He scanned the rows of seats, a sea of indifferent faces, each lost in their own little bubble of pre-work ennui. Then he saw him.