Buses can hold a strange group of people that you’d probably never meet in any other circumstance, but you can somehow relate to each and every one. My bus from Leeds to London was one of those rides. Watching each passenger step aboard, you’re an audience of one watching the theatre of human conditions and characteristics. Some play a matinee before setting foot on the vehicle, saying goodbye to the kindly loved ones that wave them from the roadside. Some can’t bare to say goodbye, staying connected by their Blackberries, talking the whole three hours back to London, while others have taken the wear of the day and snooze away, trapping those on the window seat from any chance of a bathroom rest. My favourite character was a lone lady that I’ll dub, Mary, who holding back her eyes as she waves to her family, lets the taps of eyelids go free. Not for long, but long enough to release the stress of the frog in her throat going down to the sink of her guts, before coming up for air. As she wipes away the water that had come to rest on her blossomed cheeks, she attends to something she had prepared earlier, something I can only describe as metal embroidery. Out of strains of soft wire, buttons, and metallic flowers, Mary had constructed a Cupid’s arrow point, a heart as large as my head, and I was able to watch Mary complete her work. She holds up the adorned shape and dangles it admiringly for a few seconds, as if it were for the mobile for a child’s cot and then, she slowly turns around to only see me, dazing at her creation. Caught. Although, I only feel guilty of not letting her know of my witness to her art. I don’t even have to fake an appreciative smile when she looks at me for some expression of approval. She smiles back, her eyes both igniting with pride and resting with exhaustion before inflating her travel pillow and untying her mess of mousy hair, only to stretch yawning into the vacant seat next to her.