Hunger, Part 2

Although a handful of people drifted on after her, it seemed as if the bus was not going to be even a quarter full. Amber hoped that they would not cancel the run. Her trip was far past long enough already. She squirmed down in her seat, trying to get comfortable.

A shadow moving in the dimness fell across her, and she looked up. She must have been dozing, because the driver was in his seat, the bus had rumbled into life, and she did not remember seeing this last passenger come down the aisle. He was a tall man, nicely enough dressed in a dark suit that he looked odd aboard a greyhound bus, and he was waiting now just at her elbow. Amber craned her neck to look up at him. He was silhouetted by the glow of the cabin lamp, so that she could not easily make out his features, besides the fact that he was wearing dark sunglasses. Somebody taking the stereotype of LA living a little too seriously? I wonder how he got down the aisle without tripping over anybody.  The flippant thought flashed through her mind and then disappeared to be replaced by something resembling unease. Perhaps it was only the narrow confines of the bus’s aisle, but she felt, for a moment, an almost-physical sensation of being pushed back against the acrylic plush of her seatback.

She pulled out an earbud, cautious and irritated.

“I’m sorry to disrupt your rest, but I believe I have the adjoining seat.”  The man’s voice was deep.

            Amber had did not quite roll her eyes around at the rows of empty seats surrounding her, but it would have been pleasant to point out that there were a dozen places to choose from, if it was all the same to him. Find a new damn seat, she wanted to tell him, but instead she found herself nodding of course and scrambling out into the aisle to let the man in. Years of wanting constantly to please, to impress and to be found good enough made it hard to say no, even to the most banal of inconvenient requests. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, and immediately wondered guiltily if the man would take offence at her sarcasm. He didn’t say anything in response, though, although the corner of his mouth lifted in a quick smirk as he slid past her.

            Settled into his seat, she could see his face partially illuminated by the dusty glow of the LA streetlights. From what she could make out, behind the shades he was odd-looking although not unhandsome. His features were narrow but regular, with a high forehead. His skin was very pale, and seemed almost delicate; it was parchment-thin over the prominent bridge of his nose. His hair was thick and dark, and it curved over and almost hid his widow’s peak. He turned his head to, presumably, stare out into the night. Amber found herself glad that he did not look over to meet her scrutinizing gaze.

            She took her seat again, and tried to get comfortable, making an effort to curl her legs up under her without overstepping her narrow allotment of personal space and brushing against the smooth fabric of the man’s suit.

            The driver put the bus in gear, and pulled it slowly away from the depot. The bars of light and shadow cast by the window frames slid over the man’s face, throwing it into darkness. Amber tried to focus solely on her music, and hoped that she would sleep.

            “Under the bridge, that’s where I drew some blood

                        Under the bridge, I could not get enough

            Under the bridge, I gave my life away…”

***

            She did sink away from consciousness, but only into an uncomfortable half-sleep in which the reality of the swaying bus merged with troubling but shadowy dreams. It seemed as if she felt a chill breeze moving air against her left side, raising goosebumps on her forearm and making her hunch one shoulder up against the cold — but when she drowsily tried to squirm her body away from the window the bus was suddenly hot and stuffy, the air was lying heavy and unmoving all around her.

            She finally woke up fully when the battery to her ipod died. The bus had driven out of the rain was zooming along the anonymous artery of Highway 5. Amber gazed idly out at the oncoming procession of headlights on the other side of the median, looking past the shadow of her seat companion.

            He sat so still that she had assumed he must be asleep, although the dim outline of his figure had none of the uncomfortable slumping shape that usually characterized sitting sleepers. Amber found herself scrutinizing his sharp profile, trying to make out the least sight of movement, but there was not so much as the shift of an indrawn breath. She realized that she was holding her own as she waited to see slight expansion and contraction of his outline, and she released her air in a sudden rush.

As if the sound had alerted him (but how could he have picked it out, over the steady thrum of the bus’s engine?), his head turned, with shocking suddenness, in her direction. He reached up and slowly lifted off his sunglasses, folding them dexterously with one hand. Amber could dimly make out dark eyes, whose eyelids drooped lazily as he regarded her.

            She dropped her own gaze, and was about to squirm around in her chair so that she was facing the aisle again, when he spoke softly.

            “Those foolish bastards. They made such a mistake, giving you up.”