I am a passenger.

The muffled sound of music can be heard. Just audible, drum beats and bass clap their hands in the invisible air. The tiny white ear buds are instantly recognized. A member of the Ipod army. She sits down next to me on the bus. Grey pant suit noticed as I glanced quickly at the filled space next to me. The bus is sweaty with condensation from the breath of so many riders and the rain falling outside. Umbrellas dripping moisture onto paper shopping bags. Manicured nails clutch the tan leather handbag that almost passed as quality, but there's something secretly cheap about mass manufactured goods to appeal to the gleam of high fashion magazine ad admirers. She wears a fitted grey wool coat, blond hair hitting it softly at the shoulders. I glance at her face. Her make up is neither subtle or heavy but almost seems like a toned down version of a garish night out. She looks like a legal assistant with a dark secret. The aroma of music wafts between us and I ponder if she listens to anything else other than heavy metal.