This Floating Life

I was reading on the bus this morning. It was crowded and humid. The narrator was recalling having climbed a mountain in his youth. It took days: mist rolled in and out; the sun rose and set. I looked up and the bus windows had fogged over. I thought I could make out the green ledges of the windows in Stuy Town. A woman's purse was very close to my face. I probably could have picked her wallet. I kept waiting for an announcement of where we were. I went back to reading. The narrator caught sight of an eagle up close. The bus lurched, slowed, stopped, hissed, sat, lurched. This was one of the old buses, even though now they're running the new double buses, with the spin dial floor and accordion walls in the center, on the 14th street route. Those buses seem designed to induce whiplash; I don't trust them. The bus stopped. The whole back of the bus emptied out. I looked out the back door. I saw the sign for the card store! I snapped the book shut and hurried down the steps. It was starting to rain hard.