Waiting in line, auspiciously early in the queue and thus better equipped to a preferable siège for the besieged ride across crumbling concrete. A long, stringy-haired guy behind me is carrying far more than his wilting frame ought to permit; he’s got a bland polyester hiking backpack choking him from behind, something framed and prophylatically sheathed in his right hand, a deflated pillow in his left, and at any given time, something falling from stitchless pockets or unguarded and unsecured bag orifices. His ticket tumbles to the burnished, bleach-coloured slabs composing the floor; I gently pick it up between my index and middle finger, and hand it to him, his hands somehow more full than they were moments ago, and he smiles his thanks, which seems nice, but his appearance is unpleasant and so I am simply disconcerted by seeing a shade of humanity and something sentient in the sallow stare of a stranger in the bus station.
If nothing else, I figure the gesture will ultimately save me from suffering an inaugural decapitation.