bus rides with them | he was odd
He never sat anywhere else.
Neither did she, but that was beside the point.
His fingers were fiddling with the loose piece of yarn from his patterned jumper. He tugged at it and pulled at it until it snapped in his hands. His eyebrows knitted together as he looked down upon the frayed piece of string like he had just killed it. Carefully picking it up with his slender fingers, he tucked it into his jeans pocket.
He was odd.
That was what she had picked up on from the thirty two bus rides every Tuesday and Friday morning they took together. He's always on the bus before her, and gets off at the station before her. With his unkempt mousy brown hair, oversized jumpers on his lanky frame and the way he never looked anybody in the eye; it caught her attention.
And that is why she sits next to him.
YOU ARE READING
Bus Rides With Them
Short StoryHe just sits there. On seat 31. Reading a book or listening to his music. He looks out of the window. Or looks at her. She just sits there. On seat 30. Reading a book or listening to her music. She looks out of the window. Or looks at him.
