The neon signs on shopfronts somehow look less gaudy when seen through the rain stained glass windows of the bus. As if looking through films of dust & rain drops make the signs more tolerable, more nostalgic.
But no one is looking out the window at the city they are passing through. Their eyes are diverted to their iPhones, blackberries, iPads. Anything to mask the fact that they are sitting next to a stranger, anything to avoid the possibility of awkward chit chat about the weather. How early it gets dark nowadays. Ignore the chance of basic human interaction and pretend it doesn't exist. For nothing is worse than being in a confined space with fellow commuters, the awkward stillness in the air that is punctured by coughing, sneezing, sniffing- noises of winter.
And yet they all have the same thing in common. They are all commuting home after putting in their days work at the office, in the store, behind the counter. Home to make dinner, or give the children a bath, or feed the cat. Home alone to an empty apartment, the walls tainted yellow from the nicotine you used to smoke, the couch with the faded stain from that time you split red wine. When home did not mean alone.
