"Jesus Christ," the busdriver exclaimed opening the doors with an annoyed expression. As the shock had almost immediately dissolved again I rested my head in my hand leaning it on the edge of the window. I shuttered from the cold air bursting through the barricades of the small warm bubble I had managed to create. Already annoyed with the stranger, who had managed to delay my journey home to my awaiting bed I stared into the dark through the steamed up window. It was impossible to see anything out there, so I ended up looking at my own reflection; my chestnut brown hair hung messily around my head after having been released from the bun. I had hoped it had eased the growing headache. In indignation over my hair, I led my fingers through my bangs; trying to make it settle in a more neat way, which turned out being practically impossible; the cold humid air had mercilessly left it slightly chaotic.
"Thanks." a raspy breathless voice was heard. I gladly moved my attention from my reflection and without interest following the movements of the newly arrived stranger.
He was about my age - 21 years, I quickly noticed taking in his young charming face. Though it had clear signs of exhaustion right now, as he sought through the pockets of his long, brown - and right now open- eather coat for some change. The bus had finally started moving - not caring to wait for him to pay for his ticket before continuing for which I was endlessly grateful. The young guy frantically grabbed a hold of the bar to steady himself, caused by the movements of the bus. Still with one hand in his pocket he narrowed his eyes at the bus driver in annoyance. With the sound of his exhalations gradually drowning in the rumble from the vehicle, as his breath steadied, I couldn't help smiling amused by the small act from the bus driver.
As the guy sought through his pockets, I started counting on my fingers, trying to figure out what the digits from the journal might represent. There were so many options. Locker combinations, parts of a phone number, coordination numbers. Maybe even... what if... 1.02.1994 2.09.2013... What if it means the 1st of February 1994 and the 2nd of September 2013?
I furrowed my brows - was that what they were for? Specific dates? And why had they been scribbled beneath that exact quote?
Yet again the stranger cought my attention as he murmered a low 'Jesus fuck!' Frustrated I watched, as he led a hand through his tousled brown hair, sweeping it back. It was a lighter brown colourm than Marc and Mr. Calvin's hair I thought, while getting a sudden urge to smooth out the furrow between his brows, which made him look even more despaired and older. Didn't he have any pocket money for the ticket? He rolled his eyes and in irritation threw his hand into the air, "Great. Just fucking perfect."
Closing his eyes for a second, while pinching the bridge of his nose he inhaled deeply as the bus rumbled through the street. As a prominent light green shone in through the window panes of the bus - probably from some shabby commercial outside - the entire inside turned green. I watched in awe at the sight of the young guy, who looked out the window slightly lost as he was completely bathed in the green light. For a moment his face had been completely smooth - free from anger, tiredness - it was simply blank, as if the green light reminded him of another time, another day, another lifetime maybe. Yet his jaw was clenched making his jawline appear sharp, though it still harmonized perfectly with his remaining features. Maybe the memory wasn't pleasant, which made me wonder if he ever got the chance to smile. Trying to imagine what his smile looked like, I explored his features with awe of their strange beauty.
The light disappeared, as quickly as it had come, and I witnessed how the drained expression returned to his young appealing features of his. His lips parted, "look..."
He waited for a second deciding what to say to the bus driver in order to not be kicked off of the bus.
I wasn't really sure what made me do it. Maybe it had been the look of the clear exhaustion, which had shune off of him. Or maybe it was merely the sound of his low, raspy voice, which withheld such a despondently tone, that my heart ached for him.
Whatever the reason I let my feet fall to the floor and easily moved out of the seat already searching through my bag with one hand, feeling my fingers slip around the exact item I had searched for.
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