The Bus Driver

The bus driver is a mysterious species. I only know him from the back of him, particularly his left shoulder. England or New Zealand, night or day, he is always just The Bus Driver.

Yet tonight, as the streets fade to black and the lights melt away; as the timid girl keeps her head down and that coke can won't stop clattering around; a muffled jingle plays through the vehicle from front to back. A tune of Asian origin, the twanging, whining, meowing sounds add a rather cinematic atmosphere to the journey.

But, somehow, I feel that the atmosphere is intentionally deceptive, not only to the passengers but to the driver himself; a reminder that there is a life he holds dear to him far, far away and if he can just drive this fucking route one more God damned time then he might just be able to get back to what he was before he was just The Bus Driver.