Short Fiction: Greyhound

Customer service was not a priority for the overweight, dreadlocked woman behind the counter.

I caught sight of a tattoo on her wrist. ‘Mary,’ was it? I glanced at her nametag: ‘Dominique Q.’ I immediately imagined a tragic backstory that was obviously the reason for her apathy bordering on disdain. A sister, a mother–maybe even a lover!–ripped from her all too soon by a demon called Cancer, Car Accident or Gang Violence. My heart swelled with empathy.

I smiled sadly, sincerely, as she handed me my bus ticket, but she didn’t meet my eyes. It’s OK, I told her telepathically. I understand. I looked at the tattoo one last time. I now realized it was not ‘Mary’ this woman desired so fervently that she would emblazon it on her wrist. It was ‘Money.’ My heart deflated.

She looked at me with dead eyes and an expression that clearly said, ‘Move along now.’ I dragged my bag away, feeling a little sting when she bellowed the word, “Next.”

Advertisements

One thought on “Short Fiction: Greyhound

  1. Given the recent events on Greyhound buses in Our Neighbor to the North, I’ll take this slightly depressing experience any day of the week.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s