There is a melancholy air in the noises a bus makes when it parks: a hissing; then the engine dies. You step out of this monster you’ve been riding in, like a ship sailing through the desert sands, and find the sleeping behemoth, a dirty, empty shell.
The driver was already smoking. Can’t blame him. He’d been behind the wheel before the sun was up, driving us out of the city. For my own part, I was hungry. It was near noon; time for lunch.
There was a diner across the street. On habit, I looked both ways before crossing.
Tale Told 