The bus smelled like tar and spoiled milk. He was holding his breath when he first saw her. She was like a firefly, a speck of grace, floating up the steps. The driver bellowed, but it didn’t faze her, nor did the flying spitballs.
“What’s your name?” he shouted as she swished past, silent.
Her ears were tiny plastic machines.
© 2008 J.L. Steinhoff
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