by Jarred Thompson

He arrives as the drizzle sets in. Pulling two wheeled bags—one wrapped in plastic, the other not—and two slung over either shoulder. He ricochets between platform A and B. Busses pass. Familiar letters assembled in an unfamiliar order shine yellow on screens. Which way to the apartment? He is tired. His app screens options—bus 13, transfer to the 5, walk 15 to your destination—but he is slow. The courage to move, haphazard and haggard, city-dwellers swirling everywhere, builds too late. He feigns expertise for safety. Tries a relaxed disposition, despite the rain, saddles his bum to the edge of his large check-in luggage, slips, and tries again, this time crouched in a half-squat which he hopes looks like a comfortable position to those (not) watching. Nothing to see here, he builds an island of luggage around him. He recalls the half-eaten baguette from before: the cool cream cheese, the sour gherkin, salty ham, the yielding crust and crumb. A true local eats for everyone to see. It is only when he throws the wrapping away that he sees a couple rushing to the nearest bus—which ambles along, unbothered, down the road. Weather-beaten, the man and woman return to the shelter. Wait. And rush out again, at odds with each other.