A Wait

The new bus stops had a staggered row of narrow seats. Still he felt awkward about using them, able-bodied and guilty for taking a moment of respite when he could otherwise stand. A woman with overflowing tote bags sat, bags at her feet, on the seat beside her, tumbling off of a rolling cart. He looked up at the arrival times. “Bus should be here,” he thought quickly, then pushed the thought aside. Across the street a man played on his phone while a dog finished off a fast food bag. Two teens on e-bikes rode in the street, yelling about the lack of space between cars. Behind him somebody overturned the trash can and dug through for empty bottles, filling their own sack with clinking glass. He turned the volume up on his headphones, then flicked his eyes back to the arrival chart. 

No. 141