The Bus is a Vacuum Cleaner
[…] It was around the same time that he saw her again at the opposite bus stop. Through the windowpane, between the inverted letters repeating the name of the restaurant, and advertising part of its menu, he managed to notice her amongst those waiting for the only bus that passes this street. He looked at the clock hanging on the greasy wall of pale turquoise, thinly veiled by the steam from whatever that was cooking in the large metal pot. The inconspicuous movement of the seemingly reliable clock hands never betrays the fact that the Boss tuned it fifteen minutes slower.
When he looked back, the view was blocked by the bus coloured red and white. As this huge vehicle moved away, like an iron curtain unveiling a scene, but not without leaving a trail of black smoke, those who gathered around the bus stop, a moment ago, were all gone.
Perhaps, it was the stark contrast of the bus stop suddenly devoid of human presence. On this particular day, this mundane scene was almost another picture for him. For how it has occurred to him that the bus is a vacuum cleaner sucking those people scattered around the shelter like the dust he had to wipe off the windowpane.
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