to catch a bus in its natural habitat, you must stay alert and aware. these are fickle, erratic beasts, ostensibly diurnal, occasionally nocturnal, their migration patterns known to be predictably unpredictable.
despite their size, they are relatively docile creatures—a disposition which has led to the slow erosion of their position in the food chain.
competition is fierce.
you will realise this if you have the misfortune to seek them out on a rain-soaked day, their presence deterred by the deluge of their smaller, more abundant counterpart, the car, leaving you devastatingly drenched in your pursuit. after all, the paved desert’s parched inhabitants need their fill to survive, and the common car is prone to aggression.
within their dedicated lane, the bus can outmanoeuvre even the most persistent of cars, but the station you are at is a small, square, slab of concrete, unceremoniously carved out as an afterthought. the bus stands no chance in this hostile environment. it is an hour delayed, and the rain continues.
maybe you should’ve stayed home instead.
