A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for an overtired night

The story, in full

The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night. The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm. The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full.

There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here. Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out. You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let the mattress take all of it.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Feel your wrists loosen. Your ankles can go loose now.

The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used.

If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Slower. Softer.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Sleep. Let your breathing do the rest.

It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.