The sugary smell of aftershave
bursts over her skin like bubbles.
The taste of rotting leaves
in her mouth and behind clinched
eyelids, the black churns
like gnashing seas. Her legs
cycle the air so tightly.
Against the murky pane,
a fly drums its hope
with a single pair of wings.
The fan is white, flecked
with brown, noiseless. Outside,
the sounds of an ordinary day
never cease.
All the way back in the bus,
the smell clings to her
like a low-grade fever.
Her fierce stare is on the sea
and one small hand
clenched tight around the ticket.
