Lesley Boland #12 public transport

My brother came home for the weekend from the big city. We caught a bus into town. He commented that the buses here were so clean. I didn't hear him and asked what he’d said. He repeated it. Then an egg slapped square and hard against the window. I was silenced by inexpressible embarrassment on his behalf while fragments of shell and yolk dribbled down the glass.

I tell the bus driver I have nothing smaller. He lets me ride for free. It is a sequence of smiles.

I sometimes count the number of people on the bus so I can calculate the number fewer cars that are on the road. I worry about my convenience. If there are not enough people on the bus will they cancel the service? The bus liberates me to become connected to the scenery. There is democracy in the horizon. Or is it socialism? What I mean is that it is beyond ownership, or if owned, still cannot be taken away from the viewer. My brother had a house with a magnificent view out to the Brindabellas. On rainy days you could see the squalls coming across the hills. It could be seen from the master bedroom. We talked about sunsets and he remarked that it was a pity one was not usually in bed at that time. I said that reasons could be contrived. His wife and my husband laughed. It was only later I realised I had said something of profound intimacy.