Caw, caw, caw, Mr. Crow says. I don't know what I was expecting. I smile at him, sort of, to be polite, and then look away - inward, I guess, to where people are shifting and murmuring. One guy groans and starts counting the stitches on his knitting needle, one, two, three, loud and exaggerated in a sort of passive-aggressive way (which everyone says is a Seattle thing but I always figured was just more of a secretly-an-asshole thing) while not looking at whomever made the bus brake, up in front - someone with dark hair and a dark jacket, so basically like half the kids in my poetry class. (My jacket is white and puffy and makes me look like the marshmallow man.) I look down, too (but more like for the crow - to be polite) and watch the floor, instead - greenish, and striped with yellow warning lines (do not cross do not cross do not), and stained with these weird white marks that look almost like chalk dust.
[[paragraph from the last draft of chapter one of the novel-in-progress.
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