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May. 29th, 2002 12:18 pmThis morning:
Sitting in balmy warmth of 7 AM, bench at bus stop warm, breeze still cool from crossing over a night-time Lake Michigan. Cars and SUVs, cabs and bicycles, all exhaust that would shimmer with a 20 degree temperature hike.
Breeze shifts, I tug at my skirt so it lays flat and even over my legs, my fare card clutched in hand, my backpack tucked to my side. The breeze hits my face and I smell ... what? The grass being cut on the hospital lawn behind me? No, not as green, sweeter, floral. Perfume? No one's around, the bus stop is just me for now. Across the street then, the medical center parking lot flanked not only by wrought-iron fence, but healthy city lilac bushes. Ah, that's it.
I would say something like "the heady scent engulfed me," but that's a bit trite, right?
Just pretend I said something similar but much more poetic, and you'll have what it was like for me just moments before a wheezing bus drew up, chock-full of sullen commuters.
Second bus into downtown, I see an old friend from college. We mouth conversation over well-groomed heads, she passes me her business card, home number and work number written in shiny purple ink. We catch up on nearly 12 months' worth of personal news in sub-vocalized conversation on a crowded bus on La Salle St.
Sitting in balmy warmth of 7 AM, bench at bus stop warm, breeze still cool from crossing over a night-time Lake Michigan. Cars and SUVs, cabs and bicycles, all exhaust that would shimmer with a 20 degree temperature hike.
Breeze shifts, I tug at my skirt so it lays flat and even over my legs, my fare card clutched in hand, my backpack tucked to my side. The breeze hits my face and I smell ... what? The grass being cut on the hospital lawn behind me? No, not as green, sweeter, floral. Perfume? No one's around, the bus stop is just me for now. Across the street then, the medical center parking lot flanked not only by wrought-iron fence, but healthy city lilac bushes. Ah, that's it.
I would say something like "the heady scent engulfed me," but that's a bit trite, right?
Just pretend I said something similar but much more poetic, and you'll have what it was like for me just moments before a wheezing bus drew up, chock-full of sullen commuters.
Second bus into downtown, I see an old friend from college. We mouth conversation over well-groomed heads, she passes me her business card, home number and work number written in shiny purple ink. We catch up on nearly 12 months' worth of personal news in sub-vocalized conversation on a crowded bus on La Salle St.
