Spontanéité

Anonymous passenger // snapshot

Just something I started and couldn't finish for some reason.
***

He stood, silent and impassive, swaying as the bus moved. Apart from that, only his fingers moved voluntarily. Nestled in his right hand was his battered old phone, his fingers curled over the cracked screen, scrolling and tapping. At the moment, he was poking around in his collection of music, flicking through song after song, not allowing even one to play for more than ten seconds before skipping past. His dark eyebrows were pulled low, furrowed over dark eyes concentrated on the screen. The worn and fraying hood of his grey jumper was pulled over his head, covering most of his scruffy raven-feather hair, as well as the earphones he'd stuffed in his ears hours before.

It was stuffy inside the bus, since the heater was on, but he wasn't particularly warm. His chin was tucked into his hoodie, arms close by his sides, although his left hand was wrapped around one of the cold, bright yellow poles lining the bus' aisle. It was a good thing he was hearing his old fingerless black gloves, although they were fraying too, and occasionally prompted an itch.

And he was standing despite the absence of other passengers. Well, mostly. There was an old lady folded into one of the seats at the front, but she was asleep or something. This didn't seem to deter her elderly companion, who was chattering on and on, not minding the other lady's complete and utter dismissal of her conversation. Still, despite the empty seats around him, he stood, apparently unaware of the beautiful moon outside and above, and its encircling soft ring of clouds.

It was a while before he finally settled on a song, and he slipped his right hand- and accompanying phone- into the pocket of his black jeans, silently exhaling as he unfurled his fingers from around the pole, flexing them before taking hold of the cold, solid yellow again.

When you're upside down, then you see it all; everything's the wrong way 'round but clearer than before...

He watched the cars pass by as the lyrics sunk into his mind, his soul. It was when the bus was crossing the bridge, eyes taking in the river and its shimmering reflections, that he took his phone out again and tapped the screen, jumping to the next song. He closed his eyes briefly before skipping again. Again. Again. He pressed his lips together and switched playlists, hitting Shuffle all over and over before he found something he didn't mind too much, jamming his phone and hand back into his pocket.

His eyes travelled over the interior of the tired, old bus, and he was surprised to find himself alone- apart from the driver-, but not surprised enough to show any sign of it. His grip loosened, fingers slipping from the pole. As soon as the bus came to a stop, he moved down the short aisle, stopping beside the driver to mutter a quiet "Thank you" before stepping out into the frigid winter air without looking back.

And the freedom of falling, and the feeling I thought was set in stone, it slips through my fingers, and I'm trying hard to let go...

Both hands stuffed in his pockets, he didn't bother pulling his hood over his head again when the wind rushed past and tugged it off. He shook his head, his raven-feather tufts of hair tickling his neck and cheeks while the cold air smacked into his neck and face and snuck down his upper back.