There was a dog on the bus.
A large black dog, sprawled across the aisle on a packed rush-hour bus in the Mission. On Thursday night, I’d fled the heat of LA for the temperate comfort of the Bay Area.
“He has beautiful blue eyes,” said a passenger.
No one added “And he’s lying in the way, sir. Can your dog scootch over so people don’t trip over your black-haired blue-eyed dog?”
I thought about suggesting the dog was wearing blue contacts, but I said nothing.
As I pulled the wire to signal the driver to stop, I glanced at the dog’s person.
He was staring at me intently. He had a single blue vertical line tattooed down the center of his nose. I started wondering about gangs in San Francisco. I carefully stepped around the dog’s tail, feeling like the dog owner had seen I’d taken notes on his dog. I hurried off the bus and disappeared into the crowd of Market Street.
No comments:
Post a Comment