I hate the bus. It's always noisy and it stinks. There are always kids shouting at each other and throwing things around. My only solace, the saving grace that keeps me sane, is her. Her hair dyed a different shade of color practically everyday, perfectly matching those glittering eyes she has that seem to change constantly. Usually wearing a plain brown, knitted sweater, really frayed. I constantly wonder where she got it. Hand me downs? A thrift store? Homeless shelter? I don't know. She always has this look on her face, like she's constantly tired. Whether it's not enough sleep or just tired of life. She brings this scent of spearmint with her. It seems to fill the whole bus when she enters. I've heard her humming a song sometimes. It's melodious, I've never heard of it before. The melody was melancholy and sweet, like remembering a past love. She has a black satchel stitched with a skull on the front. It's covered in various patches, some depicting flowers and princess crowns and others showing alien heads and galaxies. She sits in the seat she's always sat in, the seventh seat in the right row. It amuses me how she always remembers it and how everyone seems to just know to not mess with her. She pulls out her phone and earbuds. I've asked her once what she's listening to. Her first song always seems to be Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. She remains a mystery to me. I hear something as I'm staring out the window.
I turn. She's talking to me.
"What?"
