people I don't know

The asian man that drove our bus had long hair, tied back in a ponytail. His features were sharp, his skin naturally tanned. He said good morning to me in a gentle voice. He said goodbye and thank you to the old ladies as they watchfully felt their way down the stairs and out the door.

I saw a man selling Big Issue magazines at Wynyard station. He was a new face. Rugged skin, a bit of an unkempt beard. He looked kindly and harmless, and hard done by. He stoically held together an uninterrupted smile.

In the train, my reflection remained fixed in the window opposite me, as lights and darks and bricks and pillars flashed behind the image I saw of myself. I glanced into the next carriage. A lady's hands were holding open the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. She had knee high leather boots on, but otherwise looked dressed for a day at the office. As the train terminated at Central, she put the book in her handbag, and walked out of the carriage in quick, pacey steps. Her face was rigid.

I went home on a bus packed with weary people. The city lights gleamed at us before we found ourselves on the Harbour Bridge. Cars crept forward, changed lanes, flashed beams into my eyes. I got the odd glimpse of a tired body clutching a steering wheel, drifting unconsciously through traffic. Up above, outside of the little metal compartments we were traveling in, birds swarmed in the glow above the bridge's stone pillars. The city's dull radiance muted the dark sky so that we couldn't see any stars.