Cement Sprayed Canines

the windows are sealed shut, but a stream of recycled air blows from an overhead compartment, strands of my tresses caress my brow. To my right, an old friend from as far back as elementary school plucks at the thread of a ukulele, while the man who was escorted to the terminal by a deputy sheriff stars out through the double-paned glass at his freedom. A young girl three rows back has sprawled out over the space of two seats, stretching her legs to their fullest length, holding a phone to her ear, and based on her attire, I expected a conversation concerning academia, not how her roommates refusals to recycle plastic frustrates her, like, so much. A pair of Asian tourists head the vehicle, and exit the coach at each stop to capture a photograph of the scenery. The woman lays with her head on his shoulder, and a professional sized camera on her lap sleeps peacefully. And I think now, I will just go and take a short nap until Oakland.