On the Shells of Eggs
By David Peak
I missed the bus the day before, woke up stiff in the plastic chair, legs throbbing, knees throbbing, and realized I'd missed it again.
The day before, I'd seen the woman huddled by the change lockers, and today I saw her again. She was a mound of blankets, dark colors, a smell like the floor of a forest. Children ran past her and held their noses, pointed, pulled along by their parents, yanked.
I had nowhere to go. I wasn't trying to keep missing the bus.
There were no more quarters in my pockets and my teeth had grown moss. I couldn't call anyone, afraid I might speak in birdcalls. The woman at the counter, the one who had helped me, she was no longer there. A sign hung in the window. No more buses scheduled. Written in pen.
The woman by the change lockers was a mound of blankets. I heard her chattering to herself, under her blankets. You have to leave, I said. You have to get out of here. I prodded her with my shoe. I kicked at her. She kept chattering.
I pulled off one of the blankets and her smell, the smell grew worse. I pulled off another, and another, another. My eyes watered. Get out of here. You're going to miss your bus.
I pulled off the last blanket and there was no woman.
Just a small mound of dirt and some cracked robin's eggs, their shells the color of retinas.
I cupped them to my chest. I waited. I chattered to myself. I grew cold. I covered myself with the floor and sat close to what needed protecting, from what needed protecting.