When taking the night bus to Montreal, it is important to have two seats by yourself. The seats are terribly uncomfortable no matter how you position, but with two you can stretch out. Or at least I can--I curl up like a little pillbug. I can sleep.
Therefore, arriving five minutes before the bus leaves, I kiss the boyfriend goodbye hurriedly in an effort to ensure my place… possibly stealing the seat combination, right at the front, from a guy outside smoking. He gives me a look, but is kind about it.
It's karma.
He crosses himself as the bus departs, which makes me like him. We do not speak the entire time he sits beside me. I think he is Spanish.
But when we reach Riviere du Loup, and I have spent several hours adjusting in an effort to be comfortable… I see him start to move and pray more fervently to God than I have since I was ten, that he WILL LEAVE. He does, and it's one of the nicest goodbyes I've encountered. A small short wave. I almost miss him, and feel bad that I was so into his departure.
I settle in, and the bus driver begins blasting Avril Lavigne into his headphones. I listen to that and stew. But I find myself humming along.
We reach Levis, and I listen to the people outside through my haze of half-sleep: "Apparently his name was Perry Scarry, and he was weird for other people to look at. If only there were two mirrors." They tell jokes and laugh loudly. I write down what I hear, filtered through the sounds of buses idling and my own 3 am ears.
I look across the parking lot. Man or woman? Wait, are there two people in that car? Are those two arguing? No. It is a young couple. They appear to be making out, but on speed. Their kisses are long and intense, nervous and in full view.
Everyone who has taken the bus has a story about it. Mine this time involves sleep deprivation, slight bitchiness, and a collection of really interesting run-ins with people I will never see again.
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