Metro Route #43 (Short Story)

So here's a little something I wrote a while back. By a while I mean almost ten years now. I'm sure that as I read through it a few times I'll find thing that I want to change. You can hit up the comments with your ideas. Strange that it's been that long...

Metro Route #43
by Aka Desomniac

I woke up around 11 am. The half empty bottle of Jack was still resting quietly on my nightstand above a graveyard of empty aluminum cans. I just couldn't bring myself to break the peace that early in the morning. The bottle stood motionless.
My forehead throbbed with stabbing pains in my temples. Blood red eyes replay all the horrors I was trying to forget. Her skins smooth tan complexion. Her eyes set on her face as two swirling pools of blue and gray. Her last words, crushing everything I believed to be real in my life, "I'm not sorry it's over."
Those five words continued treading water through my stream-of-consciousness. I tried drowning them out with whiskey and beer. After 24 years of life, you'd think I'd have learned not to mix liquor and depression. I never claimed to be very bright.
By the time I left my apartment I could already tell my day was going nowhere. Her face was everywhere, the grocer, the mail carrier, even the neighbors Persian cat. With each time I saw those strands of dishwater blond hair, I found myself one step closer to saying my final goodbyes. Dining on a last meal of shotgun shells. An introduction to the afterlife, with a most personal touch. Depression overtook my reality.
My body, being severely hung-over, felt weary and near a state of total collapse after about five miles of walking. Going back wouldn't do. Not now anyways. Without thinking about the consequences I boarded a bus.
Metro transit route 43, serving Downtown Seattle, Capitol Hill, Montlake and University District. 45 minutes each way. But I had nothing but time.
The afternoon rush was in full force as I scanned the crowded bus for an empty seat. One stood out from the rest, the only vacancy, towards the middle of the coach.
I rode, in the same seat, all through the afternoon. The sun began to set on my third lap. An array of crimson streaks fell over the water beneath the Montlake Bridge. The sheer brilliance of color reflected off the water without losing any of its intensity. A sight of such beauty it couldn't be tainted by words. "I'm not sorry it's over." Her words tore through my thoughts, leaving behind an uneasy darkness.
It wasn't until nightfall that I took notice of other passengers. Businessmen and junkies rode side by side. So many different faces, so many different stories. But two faces, one story, stood out among the rest.
They entered the bus at separate times. She came a board with several other Ave Rats just off 45th. She had curly brown strands of hair that accented her smooth skin nearly poetically. She carried a backpack and a white nylon laundry sack.
The people she was with were typical of the area. Hooded sweatshirts that zip up in the front. Greasy tendrils of hair tinted and arranged in a pseudo-rainbow. Trying desperately to be different, ending up just like everyone else.
He got on shortly after, carrying nothing except a jacket. Fiery red hair scattered in all directions, half covering a face that appeared badly beaten by the day. Dark circles set in beneath his eyes. Unshaven skin hung loosely from his cheekbones. His head hung low as if he’d been caught beneath the globe when Atlas gave way.
He sat quietly toward the middle of the bus. She rode in the back, circled by the others.
One of the men with her asked if he could interview her for some kind of project. She reluctantly agreed.
The interview began. “Tell me about your current state of reality – or surreality as the case may be.”
She was got off guard by the question. After taking a moment to think about it she replied, “I feel like we’re exploring a certain part of time that shouldn’t be explored. My reality is crooked, jagged and at time horrifying. I feel like I’m acting in a movie or someone has written the script of my life…”
Her colleague quickly transposed her words onto paper and continued on, “Do you believe in fate?”
Confusion fell over her face. “What kind of assignment is this?”
“It’s for my metaphysics class. I know it’s a little odd, but… do you believe in fate?”
“Well, no. It destroys the idea of free will. I won’t go into why I think that. It’s pretty apparent we have freewill. Outside forces will always affect our lives. But with the given amount of freedom we have the general direction we travel is ultimately left to one’s self.”
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Physically I’d like to be on another continent. Mentally I plan to be on the road.”
“Maybe I should rephrase the question. Where do you see yourself spiritually in five years?”
“That’s one thing I can’t attempt to predict. I think that could be where fate comes in…”
The interview was over.
The ride between 15th and Broadway was fairly uneventful. A few more people got on, none of them for very long. We reached Broadway and East John and the Ave Rats descended onto the paved sidewalks, leaving myself, the young man, the woman - and the bus driver.
She moved to the front of the bus, nearest to the driver and began a conversation, mostly with herself. I faintly heard her say, "Seattle is so harsh, so full of money." The young man looked up. Silence.
She began to ramble on about the influence of Southern California, namely Torrance, on her upbringing. Compton was mentioned briefly. It was hard to decipher the words as they were blustered through the hurricane of open windows.
I could tell that he was having the same troubles understanding her words. His eyes wandered aimlessly around the bus and out the windows into the darkness and lights.
She continued on about her bag being full of clothes and how she got a hold of them. A group of Catholic nuns in southern Oregon had taken her in for a short while, with the intent of getting her back on her feet. What she carried with her was the extent of her belongings.
She diverged from her rant to ask the bus driver if he knew of any shelters in the area, mentioning something about a list of them that she had, somewhere. The bus driver didn't know.
We began the coast down Pine St. into the heart of the city. No one got onto the bus, no one got off.
As we got deeper into the city I could tell that she was becoming locked into some kind link with the other man. Her eyes scrambled about haphazardly. Occasionally she would hesitate on his form and stare deep into his eyes as she babbled more and more. His eyes never moved.
We made our way across the city, Ninth Avenue to First Avenue before stopping. As the bus came to a stop they both began to gather their belongings. Before exiting he looked up at her and said the words that we all could tell where coming. "What do you want most in this life?"
She looked up at him, half cracking a smile, and then turned to look out of the window. "I want someone or something to assure me that my struggle isn't for nothing."
He nodded his head and they both left the bus, through different doors.
The bus driver looked back at me and said, "This is where I take break for an hour."
"I guess you can't drive forever," I replied and moved toward the door. "Thanks for the ride."
"Anytime, man."
I walked quietly down the metal steps and onto the harsh reality of the cement sidewalks. Plastic bags and empty alcohol bottles littered the sidewalk. I could see men sleeping in torn clothing near the warmth of the buildings.
Without warning the young man from the bus turned around and yelled to the girl, "I would like to make an attempt to help reassure you… If you're interested?"
She turned around. Her eyes lit the dull sidewalk with an iridescent aura. "How about coffee?"
They both smiled.
I followed them to a small cafe two blocks away, The Turf. A large neon sign lit up the letters R F above the door. Panhandlers and drug dealers convened in front of the large windows. The only other store open was a second floor adult novelty store, directly across the street.
They took a seat at a booth near the back; I sat at the bar in front of the kitchen. I could see their movements, but the words were lost, once again, through the general ambience.
The waitress was in the kitchen; probably having just ran out to the corner for a fix. Five minutes passed before she appeared. She approached me first.
She was about 5'8", with no sign of flesh. I could see nearly every bone in her face and hands. Her skin was reminiscent of an old leather sofa. She was exactly as I had expected her to be.
Before she could initiate the conversation I made my move. "Coffee. Black." It was all business here.
"Food?" she replied with a hint of irritation in her voice.
"Just coffee."
She took the flimsy paper menu that had been placed on the counter for me and moved it to her apron pocket. All the necessary items were in place, a mug and coffee pot. She filled the cup only three quarters and spilled a noticeable amount down the side and on the bar.
Without saying another word the waitress moved over to the booth, pot of coffee in hand. She filled their cups and took the menus. They ordered some kind of food.
I watched as they talked and laughed and drank their coffee. It was quiet possibly the worst coffee I had ever past through my system. I began to question how long it had been there and how the other two could be drinking it. I noticed that the man in the booth hadn't really drank much, while the woman had attempted to compensate for the lack of quality with about five packs of sugar and two non-dairy creamers. I suffered through it black.
The waitress brought a plate of what looked like pancakes and placed it in the center of the table. The young man positioned it perfectly in front of the other side of the table. She ate everything on the plate. He smiled the whole time.
A man took the seat next to me at the bar. I knew someone would eventually. He ordered a coffee, to go. I made no attempt to acknowledge the man adjacent to me but continued to look off at the booth, in the back.
"Sometimes love can find you in the strangest places."
The familiarity in the voice was startling. Purely by reflex I turned around and looked at the man next to me. The bus driver.
We both looked at the couple in the booth. "I guess it does," I replied.
"Well, I've got to get back up the hill."
"Can you give me a minute and I'll ride with ya."
"No problem, I'm going to warm up the coach."
I watched the back booth for a moment longer. I reached for my wallet and left a five on the bar. I got up to leave. When I reached the door I turned around for one last glimpse. He had switched sides and was holding her in his arms. Their eyes were locked on one another just as they had been, nearly an hour ago, as well fell down Pine St into the city.
I turned away. It was over.
I walked back over to the bus, exchanged salutation, and we took off up the hill. I sat in the back and looked out the window, onto the Seattle streets. A homeless family nestled together for warmth. A pigeon perched on top of a dented steel garbage can. A middle-aged man resting quietly near the entrance to the bus tunnel, a mix-breed dog sleeping up against his chest.
I guess I’m not sorry its over either.