- A ticket please.
To where? Where am I going?
He doesn't listen, the phone rings.
- Hello? Yes, the 395 has arrived, no, no madam, it's already here.
An overwhelming odor reminiscent of old piss take over all senses, incrusted at the cracks on the hexagon shaped pave. A smell that takes over the cheap yellow disinfectant.
Hangover eyes spy from the windows in the twilight.
No, not Machado de Assis Capitu's eyes, real hangover eyes, dark circles, drooled faces.
The luggage is ready. Empty. Bare feet. Chopped up hair.
- A ticket please.
A mother cries inconsolable at the 416's door. The daughter waves with the somnolent baby's hand as she climbs the steps backwards. The driver sighs condescendingly.
I think about the letter. Scented with an imaginary lavender sprig, folded meticulously and geometrically in daring origami. A whole life to say in words everything that was here, chocking.
The engine starts loud, stinking Diesel. The mother drags away as if she carried the bus on her back.
- Where are you going mam?
What then? The though breaks like an echo.
I don't want to go where everyone is going with this faces of wanting to stay. The list indifferently pointing concrete defined fates, pinned as eternal at the same place.
It's late, thankfully, the distracted vendor continues to stare at something under the counter. This one has arrived. I think.
Where?
I place the wallet on the greasy counter. The empty bag makes my shoulder ligaments tremble in exhaustion.
- Where Miss?
- I am going away - I smile, a light suddenly glistening in the eyes. I sit the luggage on the ground. Identity on the balcony. The vendor continues on and on with his insidious tone: "the wallet Miss". His voice slowly disappear, as does the station, the clothes, the pain. Just anticipation propelling the molecules: forward, forward, into the infinite I dive.
On the desk of that dark room, the empty sheet folded as a bird suddenly flies out of the window.
