A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have tried everything else — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used. You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes.

There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it. The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here.

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

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full. Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Your chest can be still now.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night. The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement.

Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let the quiet be boring. Slower now.

Nothing here needs following closely. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.

Let everything get quiet, including this.

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