Bus Windows by Will Musgrove
I watch as Sammy breathes on the glass, fogs it up. With a finger, he writes BEHIND YOU in the condensation. The bus parks at its next stop, and Sammy, his hoodie hood up so he resembles a ghost, slaps the vinyl seats as he walks to the back and flops down next to me. Passengers climb aboard. They close umbrellas, shake droplets off shoes. It’s summer vacation, but we haven’t seen the sun in days.
A man with a horseshoe hairline sits next to Sammy’s window. If the light hits it at the right angle, and the man glances over at that exact moment, he’ll see the message and turn around to two waving teenagers. A made-you-look to pass the time. But no one has ever looked, probably figuring it was some sort of prank.
“I watched the new Batman last night,” Sammy says as the bus pulls away. His parents and mine both work nine-to-fives, sometimes overtime. Instead of being alone, we scrounge for change and ride the bus. Something to do since neither of us is allowed to have friends over. “There’s this part where a bomb explodes, and Bats just walks away like nothing’s happening.”
Sammy loves action movies. It’s what we mostly talk about. The bus hits a pothole, and Sammy jumps in his seat. I picture him as an explosion blowing Gotham to bits as a too-cool Batman walks away in the opposite direction.
The horseshoe-hairline guy’s head tilts slightly so we can see a bit of his cheek, light streaking across it like a tattoo. I can’t tell whether he notices the message. Sammy and I ready our waving hands. Then the man wipes the window clear with the sleeve of his raincoat before continuing to stare at the seat in front of him. Sammy pretends like he doesn’t care, starts describing a fight between Batman and the Penguin, but there’s a peach pit in my stomach and everyone keeps eating around it.
People only see the juicy bits in the world, glue them to themselves for protection. I know the danger, but I want someone to chomp down hard, to maybe even chip a tooth on the pit, to say, “Hey, that’s you, right?”
“Let’s get some jerky,” Sammy says as the bus parks next to a Kum & Go.
The doors hiss open, and we step down. The rain’s stopped. Sammy’s telling me how he plans to watch Terminator tonight, a spotlight shining down on him. I stop and look up at a break in the clouds, see the sun peeking out. Sammy keeps walking, keeps talking, and I wonder how long until he notices I’m not there.
“Behind you,” I whisper, hoping it’ll sound like an explosion.
Next to the gas pumps, Sammy freezes. He turns and looks back at me, hand waving. The peach pit in my stomach cracks open. A crack that allows the unseen plant inside to sprout, to grow as we bask in each other’s light.
Author's Note:
Self-care starts with reminding myself of its importance. It’s so easy for me to get trapped in the current of all the things I want to do and have to do, to feel like the universe will lap me if I take a day off, like slowing down is just an admission that I don’t truly care. I have a wonderful partner who helps counteract these intrusive thoughts and have been trying to be better at practicing mindfulness. When I do offer myself some grace, I like to watch old cartoons. Inspector Gadget, Animaniacs, etc. Seems silly, but it works.
Will Musgrove is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Florida Review, Wigleaf, Pinch, The Cincinnati Review, Passages North, Tampa Review, and elsewhere. Connect on Bluesky at @willmusgrove.bsky.social or at williammusgrove.com.
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