Soft Guns

1

It's cold, almost dark and raining. Exactly how this day has been feeling so far, Ash thinks. She's been to more than four job interviews today and they have basically all said they didn't want her. Normally they just do the interview and then they come up with the phrase "We'll let you know in a few days on what we've decided." But today they all just said "Yah we don't think you'll make the cut but thanks for coming anyway". Every time they said that, this angry pit in her stomach grew bigger and bigger but she knows she can't show all that anger or they will put her back in prison. She hated how their eyes darted to the line on her CV she couldn't erase—the one marking four years locked away. None of them asked why, but she could feel their curiosity, their judgment. Murder? Theft? Did it even matter?

The main conditions of her keeping her parole were that she had to have a job, a place to live and she had to stay away from people from her past. When she got out of prison she met all those conditions but today it's none. The moment they told her she had to stay with her dad, she knew that wouldn't go well for long. It took three weeks, quite long actually, before he threw her out for no reason. That's always how he's been like. Mad at her for no reason. So then she was homeless and the only people she knows are her junkie friends so that's where the second condition was violated. She's not doing drugs again though, her friends are. And then the last condition, well she ruined that one herself. That job she was doing was so shitty and it didn't pay her anything so she just quit. And now here she is; walking through the rain to the most nearby bus she can take to her friends' house.
She's finally there, under the covered bus shelter and no one is sitting there already, luckily because you don't really want to be around her right now. Her bus is going to be here in fifteen minutes, plenty of time to smoke a cigarette first. The bus stop is located right next to a busy road where cars constantly pass by. She decides there is no reason to pull out her little wired earphones because she won't hear the music anyway.

Halfway through her cigarette a man comes running through the rain. It looks stupid but she probably looked actually like him a few minutes ago. He also seems relieved when he's under the shelter. He takes a cigarette and starts patting on his jeans, looking for a lighter she supposes.

Hey can I borrow your lighter? Sure, she says quietly. He probably didn't even hear her. He takes her lighter, looks at it briefly and then lights his cigarette. You can see he's had a difficult day too.

When is this fucking bus going to come, he says while walking in little circles, nervously. You need the 32nd? Yes. Five minutes maybe, she says without looking at him. Five minutes too long. Alright, can I sit here till then? She don't answer she just nods. There's a clear gap between them. She don't want to talk to him and he doesn't want to talk to her either. She sees he's wearing worn-out boots. I mean hers are also very old, she must have gotten them before she went to prison. When she decides to inspect his hands she can see they have scars on them and tattoos. Were the tattoos first or the scars, she asks herself. She noticed the way his eyes darted to the street every few seconds, like he was expecting someone—or avoiding them. His boots looked like they'd trudged through more than just puddles. Same with the scars on his hands. Ash finished her cigarette and glanced at him one last time. His gaze was fixed on the road, jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact. She thought about asking him something—anything—but stopped herself. She had her own mess to deal with. The bus's headlights cut through the rain, blinding for a second. Finally. She stamped out her cigarette and stood up. So did he.