Le Metro

She would ride the bus and correct her children's homework on the way home. Her brats would hang their legs insolently over the sides of the chairs, kicking the sides with rhythmic bangs. She admonishes them to try harder, to no avail. They are clearly skeptical of her status in life when their school commute includes riding a bus to a minimum wage job.

The boyfriend tries to pretend to be engaged although it's clear he's paying more attention to the beats in his skull candy headphones. He could be nodding yes to her statements or he could be bopping to the latest release. They have a long stretch of time unfurling in front of them, the reverse of the road streaming below the bus. The end destination is just as dodgy and just as uncertain.

We are stuck together on this planet in this universe for a long time. We should make it pleasant, is the implication. Instead, it's like hitting a Tibetan prayer wheel and watching it spin. The hand hurts, the wheels spin and slowly stop, a prayer is made or is not, and the whole thing happens again. There's no allegory here, it's just the way that things are. Once you have kids you have to accept that everything will be soaked to fuck in sugary sticky red-coloured water.

If it weren't for the bus ride, they might be the people you see just stopped on the curb, smoking a cigarette butt. You could beg for a few dollars and buy an alcoholic drink in a paper bag. That's all you need, really, smoking butts is free. If you have a cheerful disposition and a joke on your paper cardboard sign you could earn a pretty decent living. Free cigarette butts and a few bottles of liquid in a paper bag, all for a few hours of sitting or standing on the street corner. Plus, you can still ride the bus and get free rides just through sheer force of a funny personality.

She dresses provocatively because that's the only leverage she has. A brown triangle riding high up the rear pelvis bone displays an impossibly thin thong. That's supposed to be sexy, but it stretches and strains way too much over the large bulk presented by her posture. A wide swath of Lycra® barely keeps her abdomen in check. Given the number of small brats in tow whose homework waits to be reviewed, it's possible she has another one or three on the way. She should probably wear whitie-tighties like a boy with the flap in the front instead.

The joke he tells from within the confines of his beats headed nod is so funny she covers her mouth in mirth. The kids rowdily whoop. Then they all settle down and go back to swaying with the motion of the bus. The orgasm has been induced, the high is now over. It's back to the dreary grit and grime of life.