they wait for the bus on the corner of 242^nd and elm, traffic blaring in front of their noses, the angry working class poised with their horns. some kind of modern hunting ground, hunting time and trying to waste it for other people with red, yellow, and green.

 

 

bus three fifty-two crosses the intersection. stops before them, doors slamming open.

 

they get on at different entrances.

 

 

 

 

sojin does not like younger men.

 

he smiles at her giddily during their physics lecture. (she can’t decide if this is offensive or polite) definitely younger, is the absentminded thought as she copies down equations.

 

 

 

 

he takes the seat next to her on the way home. she looks out the window.

 

they don’t say anything.

 

 

 

 

“i’ve heard things about you,” he tells her in between classes.

 

her sneakers scrape against the asphalt. walking in the middle of the street, wondering if he will follow. “what things?”

 

he zigzags, up and down, street to sidewalk. “you’re antisocial.”

 

she raises her eyebrows and tucks stray fly aways behind her ears. “oh.”

 

 

 

 

they wait for the bus on the corner of 242^nd and elm, traffic rushing in front of their noses, the rushing working class speeding to get home. it makes them look lazy for sitting at the stop.

 

bus three fifty-two turns the corner. stops before them, doors slamming open.

 

he gets on behind her.

 

 

 

 

“you’re just different,” he concludes as she’s nodding off, oldies faint through the speakers. she cracks an eye open to look at him. “not antisocial,” (begins to stutter) “but you know, interesting.”

 

he looks out the window before beginning again. “if they looked a little harder, they would realize.”

 

 

 

 

she stares at the ceiling until her stop comes.

 

she thinks about that.

 

 

 

 

sojin doesn’t like people who smile all the time.

 

it doesn’t stop him.

 

(and she decides it’s kind of endearing, the idiocy and head-over-heels brightness all over his face.)

 

 

 

 

they wait for the bus on the corner of 242^nd and elm, traffic lethargic in front of their noses, high noon sunshine turning the pavement blinding. she watches him this time.

 

the bus three fifty-two crosses elm. he fidgets as it stops before them, doors slamming open.

 

she takes her seat next to him.

 

 

 

 

there’s a flower shop there, two buildings away from the bus stop. buckets of roses litter the entrance.

 

then, they pull away. she keeps her gaze trained on the flowers until they are nothing but a red speck in the distance.

 

(when she turns forward again, she sees that he is watching as well.

 

the little things in life, far beyond and closer in reach.)

 

 

 

 

rides turn into minutes, hours, days, weeks.

 

 

 

 

they take their seats next to each other.