LOCATION: NOWHERE
ETA: 9:00 PM EST
BUS ARRIVING IN 3 MINUTES

He breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the bus stop sign flash orange with the message. It was raining, and cold, and all he wanted to do was get away from here. Wherever “here” was.

Already, he had been waiting too long, but he couldn’t get a taxi this far out in the suburbs, and it was nearing 6:00, around when the traffic gets out of hand.

His gray suit jacket and most of his pants were soggy and dripping at this point, and he had definitely missed his plane. It wasn’t his fault, but it almost felt like it.

He shakes his head and gets his wallet out as he sees the glow of the bus’s headlights. He isn’t sure if the bus can see him, as there isn’t a streetlight close enough to lend much light to the dark street. So, he waves at the driver and walks a bit closer to the curb, sighing once again as the bus slows to an eventual stop.

He pulls out his wrinkled bus pass and flashes it to the driver, who nods as he walks by. He sits in the first row. The rest of the bus is empty, save for a disheveled man who is muttering to himself in the back.

The bright fluorescent lighting is stark in contrast to the blackness of outside, and he is soaked to the bone. He sighs. The bus lurches as it starts to move.

He begins to wring out his hair and shrugs off his jacket. It helps a little. He sits back against the plastic seat and tries to spot shapes out the window. He can’t, so he studies his reflection.

Eventually he gets bored and starts to walk, up and down the walkway of the bus. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

The man sitting at the back of the bus gives him a look and gets off the bus at the next stop. He doesn’t stop pacing, beginning to think.

Often, he is too busy for thought, so he doesn’t bother with it. But, alas, there is nothing better to do now. He lets it come.

Eventually the road becomes smoother as they exit the busy streets. He peers out the window at the city, usually an imposing bundle of towers and shadows, but reduced now to a clump of lights.

It fades and grows smaller, eventually to be whisked away by the wind. Through the open window in the back, some splatters of rain hit him occasionally and the wind whispers through the bus.

This, he thinks, is how life ought to be. Not the monotonous rumble of jobs and homeownership and gray skies, but travel, and long nights without worry, and simply being.

He sits down again. His seat has a puddle in it.

On a whim, he pulls the cord and the bus screeches to a halt. Using that momentum, he stands, waves to the driver, and leaves. He left his jacket on the bus. He doesn’t notice. He does not know where he is, but he needs to walk, and the bus is boring him. His feet squelch in a puddle as he steps off the bus.

The rain quickly douses his clothes again, if they had dried at all. He walks, for a while, enjoying the feel of the cold drops against his skin and the shine of the water on the cement beneath him. It is not often that he gets to explore and become himself again.

He must only be part of himself, around others, but when it is just him and the peace of the night, he can welcome in everything.

The trees sway with the wind and shake down water onto the sidewalk. The few houses around him become invisible as the lights turn off, one by one. He continues to walk, not minding the wetness of his clothes.

He is not cold, nor uncomfortable, so he pays it no mind. Perhaps his skin is just numb, but it felt as if he has changed, somehow.

He feels free, unhindered by the life he has now left behind. Maybe people will come to search for him, but he thinks it will not be so. Even if people missed him, he would not be found. The rain seems to come down harder around him. He feels each drop soak into his skin and welcomes the change they bring.

He is refreshed, despite being heavy and waterlogged. He doesn’t feel as though he had been walking for long, but it has been hours.

He is at a bus stop again. It is early still, anyone with sense would still be in bed. The bus arrives. He pays for a new bus ticket. This time, he sits at the back of the bus. He opens the window and tries to talk to the wind.

A man in a very wet gray suit walks onto the bus and sits at the front. He hangs his jacket on a seat near him. The rain comes through the open window and makes a puddle on the back row of seats.

The man on the bus gets up now and starts to pace. It seems the wind has nothing to say. His face contorts without his permission, and he gets off the bus. He walks. He eventually finds a bench.

Wind is a finicky thing, always stubborn. It sits on the seat next to him. They talk, like old friends catching up over a good drink. He is caught in the swirl of the breeze, the world seeming to move slower around him.

The wind knows him, but he does not know himself. He asks it to help him understand. Together, they walk through the clouds. His tears wet the ground far below him. From far heights, he watches a body slump over on a bench and a man sit down in a puddle on a bus.

It is for the best.

He moves on, and the world spins under him.