She was sitting on the bus, lamenting the morning commute and what awaited her on the 23rd floor in an office with no windows, only waist height walls. She was familiar with every aspect of the ride. At 7:42 they would stop at Juneau and three men would board the bus, she could always accurately guess their attire based on the weather. Today there was no rain yet so two of the men would have North Face jackets, slacks and white button up shirts just slightly exposed, the other man would be in his trench coat and freshly polished black shoes, he carried an umbrella just in case things got worse. A middle aged woman that she named "Pollyanna" would be walking her two dachshunds just passed Dawson. Anyone who would try to convince you that humans are not creatures of habit has never worked a 9-5 job before. The mountain was out that morning, as people would tend to say when they couldn't think of anything meaningful to discuss but still felt obligated to initiate a dialog. Five people throughout the bus began such conversations. She over head one of them, "When's the last time you made it up there?" "Oh it's been far too long, at least a couple years." She was 34 years old and had never been to the mountain. Her whole life it had always been there in the distance like some relic of a long forgotten religion that no longer has meaning in a world of touch screens and RFID technology, but the people still respect it for its cultural significance. She imagined it was a similar thing for the people that commute around Notre Dame or Wat Arun, but she'd never been there, and had no desire to travel, so she had no way to prove that. Her whole life thus far had been spent within the confines of the city limits, the only cow she'd ever seen was in the part of the zoo called "Family Farm". She often dreamed of going to other places, seeing with her own eyes the things that she'd only viewed in magazines or featured in the background of mediocre television dramas. For lunch she had four carrot sticks, a fat free yoplait, one third of a chicken breast she cooked three days ago and a shot of insulin. By the time she left to go home it was raining, she thought about the man with the trench coat and his umbrella, but knew she wouldn't see him on the ride home. She often wondered which bus he took back. She imagined the phone call that he might make every night to his wife, explaining how things got crazy at the office and apologizing that he won't be home for dinner. As soon as he hangs up the phone he immediately makes another call where all he says is, "She's starting to get suspicious. Hurry, I can't be too late." It reminds her why she still lives alone. When she got home the rain had subsided into a mere drizzle. Three weeks prior a stack of phone books had been left on her door step, they were now waterlogged and soon they'd start to smell a little funny, but she walked passed them like she had each day before. She had completely forgotten about the mountain.
I guess that didn't turn out too bad.
