A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when the day has been loud — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full. You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here.

You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it. A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out. Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm. The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your ankles can go loose now.

If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Slower now. Let the quiet be boring.

You can stop listening properly. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Softer.

Almost nothing to do now. Nothing here needs following closely. Let it all get further away.

For days that were loud from the moment they started.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.

18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.