A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the

The story, in full

You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. 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.

Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out. The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement. A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your ankles can go loose now.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it. The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here. The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your chest can be still now.

Sleep. Let the quiet be boring.

Nothing here needs following closely. Leave it there. Let them.

Just the dark. Just the weight. Let it all get further away.

Too tired to try hard is exactly the right amount of tired for this.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

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