Joshua Patterson

I'm part of the bus stop community. We're like leaves on the wind, blown together for a short time, then whisked apart. We don't know each other's names and it doesn't matter. We mourn the passing of a fellow rider when he purchases a car and vanishes from the worn benches, milky bus stop windows and concrete floors layered with months of accumulated garbage and the smell of old urine.

A fine group of misfits on the bus today. An array of missing teeth, a pale rainbow of vacant smiles, weathered skin, mussed hair and nervous eyes. Too animated, as though life unnerves them. Life pounces on some souls like a cat - not killing them outright, but batting them around with curious detachment. Not cruel so much as bored...

He moves like he's made of china. Every movement careful as though a quick step or jerk of an arm could shatter him. He watches the ground intently as though it had betrayed him once but he's determined to catch it the next time. No trouble spotting him in a crowd. The top of his head is always staring straight at you. But he moves with a somber elegance, like a crane wading through marsh water. I could see him at a posh English dinner party with such slow deliberate movements. But I look at his oversized aviators and crew cut and faded ski jacket and there's something sad, faintly ridiculous and yet dignified about him.

I see the face of an Amazon Indian woman reflected in the plexiglass shield in front of my seat. She's two seats back and the sun gleams on skin like chocolate or fertile soil. Her straight black hair falls in thick folds as her cheekbones angle down to her strong chin. Her nose is elegant and straight but finely molded to complement her thick black eyebrows. The broad expanse of her brow is the colour of finely polished mahogany. Her lips are full and dark. She slips in and out of the reflection like a ghost. Flickers in and out of worlds. She seems resigned to be here but not at home. Where is she from? Where does she go between heartbeats?