Late
We're late.
Time trickles on, faster than I could ever hope to expect. I'm here, sat here watching as moments pass by, shadows of the night I'd imagined it to be.
Traffic is heavy, the air stale— the putrid smell of gasoline burnt and the rancid thrush of urbanization clawing after my nose, barely covered as it is by the palm of my hand. The jeepney is crowded, and I find myself alone, arms squashed, brushing uslessly against those of strangers as I struggle to tuck into myself, make myself smaller, take up less room.
I hate this.
My friends, they are nowhere to be seen here.
My thoughts are a whirlwind, a conglomeration of every worst case scenario I could have ever imagined. Inwardly, I curse myself— myself and the rotten luck lapping along my heels.
I'm a sticking, sweaty mess. It's late, so very late. Almost eight.
Eight.
The debut started at seven.
I look out the jeepney's window; close my eyes against the rush of the wind through the crack between the glass slides. The traffic lights have turned green, and the slow pull of the traffic has siphoned itself into a mimicry of every car race I've ever seen.
It seems, on a friday night like this, everyone's got somewhere to be.…
The jeepney stops, a passenger gets off; the man who'd sat himself beside me. Almost, I could see her, one of my friends leaning against the side of the jeepney's open door. Eyes at half-mast, glazed and unfocused, she simply watches the city lights as they flash us by.
And time slows, if only then. I realize, even if nothing else, I'm not the only one in this.
I slide along the edge of my seat, bags bunched in my arms, the thin plastic cover of the seats squeaking with every scratch of my jeans.
My friend turns, and I give her a little smile. Eyes twinkling, she returns it.