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The house on the bus

I like buses. The bus means "city", for me that I come from a country where you go to the streets by bicycle and by car to the movies. I like to get on and stay for at least a quarter of an hour. Before going to stop I choose the book you read during the trip. I live very far from downtown, so I have plenty of time. I can really immerse myself in reading. The bus runs every 15 minutes on average, in this suburb of the city. So, if I realize I'll have to wait a long time, I sit on the platform and start reading. Then the bus arrives, I select a seat, discarding those reserved for the disabled, the elderly and pregnant women and those with a preference for the step and those oriented in the opposite direction to the march, where usually even the little old man dares to ask more unstable give him the place. Then I squatted down to the better in my new location and open the book. Here is my new intimacy, a temporary space of my own, I feel perfectly at ease, calm and in tacit alliance with the driver (since we keep company for most of the trip) and any other subscribers of the service of public transport. Here, in fact: the subscription. The ease with which buses go up and down, without the anxiety of stamping, obtain the ticket , without checking that no sforino sixty minutes. Perhaps it is the subscription, this note a little bit 'longer than the others, which allows me this symbiosis with the means of transport. And surely the fact of not having to lead, to let me carry .. a kind of passivity almost sensual, and that relaxes every nerve. In fact last night while I was in town I pulled out my little book, but then I looked out and I noticed it was already dark, at 19:30. I thought autumn had arrived. So I closed the book and put it back in your backpack. I dozed off in the river of lights and windows that flowed out of the windows of the bus. And in fact I have seen, the fall, which was nestled in the footsteps of the passers-by, the roar of the foliage, reflected in the headlight of a car at the door of a building. It was just holed up and waiting for striking entrance. Today the last time.