Some lady had tried to bring a live chicken on the bus, which caused a bit of a stir. The snow pelted down and we felt badly for her. She was all alone, without husband or child to help. Already her dark silhouette was dotted white. If no one came to her aid, the snow threatened to disappear her entirely. In the folds of her coat, the chicken flapped madly, scattering snow, unable to wrest free of her woolen arm. It was a little crazy. The bus driver must’ve thought so too, because he had left his plastic compartment and stood blocking the doorway. I was sitting up front and got a good look at the lady and her chicken. She was short and appeared to be in her mid-fifties. The bird was black with red features. Seeing the commotion, a crowd of people moved to board through the back instead.
We’d been idling at the Chinatown stop for almost five minutes. At least, I thought it’d been around five. It was hard to say because I was wrapped up in thoughts. We had decided to take a break, you see, since she was moving out west. And so it was agreed I wouldn’t contact her for a while, even though I still loved her dearly, and I knew she still loved me. In the evening, we would meet over coffee and put it all to rest. [ . . . ]
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