The Start of a Book?

The bus was fifteen minutes late and I was anxious to leave.  Why did it have to be late today? It had been four years since I had seen her and now I was being forced to wait even longer.  I tried to push the tears back down, but the more I tried, the blurrier my vision became from the tears that I had held in for so long. 

Finally, the bus crawled into sight from behind The Cotton Building on the corner and into the station.  Fourteen people got off, including three children traveling alone, and headed straight for a lobby filled with old vending machines.  The scheduled layover was to be ten minutes.

I boarded the bus and stood at the front of the aisle and quickly gazed over the remaining passengers and tried to find an open seat. All I wanted to do was sit and be left alone.  I took the seat across the aisle from an elderly man in a tweed jacket holding a bouquet of wilted white daisies.  I sunk into my seat and searched for the travel packet of tissues somewhere deep in the caverns of my bag.  The tears wouldn’t stop and began to fall from my cheeks onto my sleeve.

The elderly man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a hand kerchief with an embroidered pink letter “R” on it and handed it to me.  I hesitated taking it from him, but then reached across the aisle and took it from his shaking hand.  I wiped my tears. 

As the bus left the station, I felt numb.  What would I say to them when I got to the house?  They didn’t want me there and I knew that, but I had to get there.  I had to be there.  I had to make things right.  I tried to close my eyes and just focus on my breathing.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  I could feel my heartbeat slowing.   In two hours I would have to tell them.  I would have to tell them why I left.  The truth.