BAGGAGE
Lopsided, bulging, irritable at the seams, the raffia bag sat on her lap creaking with every slight movement. Loose dry strands pricked her legs, causing her to scratch and frown.
Bus was packed. Cheaper than the train, it attracted a less discerning and stronger smelling passenger. Eyes closed, sounds and odours criss-crossed. Sweet sweat, old sweat, warm crotch, stale pants, crinkly packets, keys in pockets, crying, phone lying, food wrappers, toe tappers, telling off, showing off.
Downtown sleaze petered out, replaced by stoic desert. Childless sandpit suited her mood. Roadkill punctuated the journey – bloody commas and hairy full stops on a determined grey line. Her fingers traced the black wool letters embroidered on her bag. MEXICO. The ‘R’ was saggy and stuck out. She too felt loose, unable to poke herself back into life.
Her stop came and went, just as it had done the day before and the day before that. Getting on is easy, getting off requires a reason.
Bus turned sharp right. Topmost contents of her bag fell out and disappeared under seats. When the bus turned again, they slid to the aisle, exposed and indignant. Deodrant, make-up, hairbrush, pens, notebook, overripe apple, bottle of water rolled to and fro on a rubberised sea.
As the bus slowed down to make a stop she stood up and straightened her clothes. Treading both on and over her belongings she made her way to the middle of nowhere.
sue-saunders.com 
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