Writing Assignment 2 Final Draft

The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The memory of that day slowly drifted into his head. They had been sitting in seats facing each other, and she had been reading a paper, without moving her eyes, aware that he was watching her. When she had finally looked up the delicious self consciousness of that first contact had captured both of them at once, confining them into an eye contact that made words unnecessary. He ran his hand along the metal handrail. It seemed so long ago.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding meeting his eyes. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus shook them along, and she thought about endings. Popular culture tended to tell stories that ended and closed with beginnings; beginnings of journeys, beginnings of lives, beginning of relationships. What are we told about solid, firm endings? She had expected tears, screaming, compromise, but now, in the midst of her very own ending, it was...empty. Just two people consisting of trailed off memories.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.

Writing Assignment 2 Draft 2

The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The memory of that day slowly drifted into his head. They had been sitting in seats facing each other, and she had been reading a paper, without moving her eyes, aware that he was watching her. When she had finally looked up the delicious self consciousness of that first contact had captured both of them at once, confining them into an eye contact that made words unnecessary. It seemed so long ago.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.

Writing Assignment 2 Draft 1

The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone on the bus, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an overlong ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had always gotten from his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact?
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.