Route 72S

The route 72S was known to many with jobs in the inner city, especially to Charlie. He had sat on the same bus, at the same time for almost nine years right after the second year of his college. He knew every seat on the bus, every driver and almost every passenger. However he spoke to none, he just knew them by the color of their clothes, their preferred seats, their bus-stops and of course their shoes. For Charlie preferred to stare at the floor most of the time. He hated faces, because he thought the faces lied, the faces cried, and the faces leave a lasting impression, may be a scar or two on your heart. He knew one such face before he moved to the city, but alas, it was never meant to be! In this cold and aloof city of five million, Charlie had become comfortably numb to keep the joys and sorrows where they belong - outside of his heart - outside of his realm - outside of his existence!

Tonight, however, a new pair of black sandles climbed the bus. With its own systematic and calculated rhythm they tip-toed on the metal floor of the bus, turning almost every head on the bus. Almost every head, except Charlie's. For the shoes stopped by Charlie's seat and parked themselves right next to Charlies old Bostonians. Charlie noticed the red flare oozing out of the front of those sandles so perfectly placed on manicured nails as to remind Charlie of those roses that grew in their garden back home. As the bus pushed off, the whiff hinted a scent of roses flirting with Charlie's senses. For next twenty minutes Charlie clutched his hand, as if never to let go of his surreal dream, never to let it break his heart again, never!

The old black woman's brown shoes walked by, and Charlie noticed, it was the bus station at Victoria and Polk. Next, that whiff again, as the black sandles tik-talked away unfurling the rose-garden on every passenger. As the bus drove off, from its dark windows, Charlie noticed the bright warm light from the new lamp-post installed right next to the bus station.